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youandtom2 · 2 years

Note

Tom Holland, smut, He is a prince and y/n is a commoner whom he is in love with but the king and queen don't know. Run wild with it!

a/n: love a bit of prince tom (modern day Prince!Tom) SMUT 18+ also this turned out a lot longer than I anticipated :)

There you are, standing just a few rows back from the golden gates of the palace being swallowed up by the crowd. You're impossibly hard to notice given that with a crowd this large, faces blur together in the sea of bodies, but Prince Tom's eagle eyes pick you out only minutes from emerging onto the royal balcony. On the sunny afternoon of the eldest Prince's birthday, the Royal Holland family present themselves gallantly in front of their public servants, reveling in the loud cheers and admiring the colours of their coat of arms waving proudly into the air. The Royal Holland family are beloved by the masses to a global extent, so when everyone heard that they would show their appreciation publicly, nobody had to think twice about seeing the royal family for themselves. It truly is magnificent spectacle to behold and certainly a cause for celebration.

Dressed in his royal blue uniform adorned with a white sash and decorated with gleaming badges, Prince Tom stands poised next to his father and younger brothers who gracefully thank the public, saluting the royal air force as it flies overhead.

"Aren't they just majestic?" One woman declares behind you.

"Just the perfect family!" Another woman cries.

"Such beautiful, beautiful people." Oh, how you know.

You give a small knowing smile when Prince Tom's eyes find yours. No matter how often those eyes have landed on you in the past, you still can't seem to familiarise yourself with the sheer power those eyes hold. A firm, confident gaze that always has your heart skipping a beat or two, that always drops an anchor in your stomach, and always, always raises your temperature. Dazed, your brain buffers slightly at his ability to pluck you from the crowd; one of the hundreds of thousands standing here in the royal promenade.

Before the Royal Family retreat back into the palace, Tom casts you a glance and with the wink of his eye, he disappears from view. The simple gesture casts your mind back to when you first met him; a sheer accident but memorable to say the least. You worked in the children's hospital as a nurse and as part of his royal duties, Prince Tom was visiting to pay his respects to both patients and workers. You were supposed to be out of the way, out of sight and working behind the scenes as the higher-ups and supervisors took charge of guiding Tom around the hospital to ensure that everything went smoothly and according to plan, but you couldn't resist just one look at him, even if that meant risking your employment to do so. In the end, you made a fool of yourself. The chair you used to see over the crowd crippled under the weight and you went falling to the floor with a crash. It was loud enough to catch Prince Tom's attention and instead of being a spectator to your clumsiness, he didn't hesitate to maneuver himself through the crowd to pick you back up onto your feet again with gentle hands and a genuine concern for your wellbeing. You assured him you were okay, nonsensically stumbling over your words and apologising profusely for the disruption. At the time, you couldn't look at him in the eye, too embarrassed to face to situation you were trapped in, hoping that shuffling away would solve your problem but he wouldn't let go. He needed to see the truth in your eyes, to know that you were actually okay before he dismissed you and until you eventually met that powerful gaze of his, he wouldn't stop his fussing.

It was like a bolt of lightning; the quick, almost tender moment of silence before the thunder. He held your gaze with a soft smile to which you could only mirror with your own, soft whispers of reassurance flowing through your lips.

Somehow, that little interaction however quick it seemed, was the turning point for Prince Tom. After that visit, he became a sponsor and took every chance he could to come out and visit the hospital again and without a doubt, you were always on his agenda. He would never leave without a wink.

The crowd slowly disperses behind you, shuffling their way back down the royal promenade to host their own celebrations back home. You follow your own path through the park, past the trees and the evergreen grasslands, past the shallow duck ponds as they bathe underneath the sun, past it all until you find yourself at another main road. Your basement flat lies at the bottom of a short narrow staircase off the city's streets, concealed to all who don't know it's there. Its entrance hides directly beneath a larger concrete staircase that carries up towards a grander entrance of the tenement building. You're proud of your little flat; it's your little secret.

You decide that in celebration of the Prince's birthday, you order yourself a pizza and crack open a bottle of rosé. The simplicity of it makes you laugh; what decadent luxuries would the Prince really be eating on his birthday? You couldn't imagine the extravagances of a royal dinner.

Not too long after ordering, a knock emits from your door. With your purse in hand, you approach your opaque glass door, seeing a hooded figure behind and thinking how uncharacteristically quick the deliver was.

"Hi-oh my god!" Alarmed, your eyes widen upon seeing the set of brown irises that caught yours earlier in the day, and not the glum, tired eyes of the delivery driver. In your doorway, stands Prince Tom, clad in a sweatshirt with a hood hanging over his head and his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his light blue denim jeans and although a completely alien sight to see, there's something about seeing him in casual clothes that doesn't unnerve you as much as him being here does.

"Hello again." His smile stretches wide across his lips, completely mesmerising.

"Prince Tom! What...what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. You're not busy are you?"

Dumbfounded by his response, you almost forget to answer as you welcome him into your home. "No, not at all. I've just ordered a pizza actually." A natural cedarwood scent follows behind him as he trails into your home and you finally get to relish it without it being masked by the horrible disinfectant smell of the hospital.

Why the Prince of England would elect to come into your basement flat on his birthday is beyond you, yet here you both are.

"I, uh, I can't say I was expecting you, Your Majesty, so you'll have to forgive the state of my flat." You murmur as soon as you notice the pile of laundry stacked in your living room, waiting to be ironed.

"Call me Tom, please. We've known each other long enough. And don't be silly, your flat is gorgeous. It suits you."

Jesus. Don't read too far into that...

"Thank you. So...can I get you anything? A drink? I've just opened some rosé. It's just a cheap bottle from Asda though..."

"A cheap bottle of rose is exactly what I need right now, thanks. After you." You take lead and he follows you into your kitchen, already lit with candles, the bunkers topped with a single empty plate and a lonesome glass of wine. A light flutter murmurs in your heart when you reach to grab another, knowing that the evening ahead of you is already seeming to be less lonely.

Tom takes a seat at your breakfast bar, pulling his hands from his pockets and revealing the curls beneath his hood, taking in the sights of the room around him. You have no other choice but to throw a smile when he catches you glancing at him, but you concede with yourself; it can't be helped, not when the eldest son of the most prominent family in the country sits calmly in your kitchen. You can't seem to describe yourself the same as the bottle shakes slightly in your hand, pulsing at the elevated beat of your anxious heart. The nerves of his sudden appearance have yet to dissipate.

With a composing breath, you hand him his wine glass and he immediately thanks you with a winning smile.

"Pizza shouldn't be too long. You're welcome to have some if you haven't already eaten."

"Yeah, that would be great. If you don't mind of course."

"Not at all. It is your birthday after all...which reminds me. Happy birthday." You offer up your glass to clink with his and he complies, watching you as you sip demurely at your wine. "Although I have to ask: why are you here?"

"Like I said, I wanted to see you."

He translates your silence into confusion, his answer seemingly offering no explanation to you whatsoever. To him, it's obvious.

"But...why me? Why not with your family? Or your friends?"

"You don't consider yourself to be my friend?"

"I...uh...I don't know. I didn't want to assume-"

"Why do you think I visit the hospital so often?"

You shuffle anxiously on your chair across from him. "I thought you were just doing your job, making appearances, doing things that Princes usually do."

"I suppose it helps that that's what it looks like I'm doing, but the truth is a little more simpler than that. In fact, I've already said it. Twice." It eventually clicks in your slow, dumb brain and he observes the epiphany gloss over your eyes.

Because he wanted to see you.

"I like spending time with you and what better way to spend my birthday than with someone I like."

"I...I'm glad. Really. I kinda made myself out to be an absolute idiot when we first met, so I'm relieved. And I like spending time with you too. It made me feel a little bit better about myself after my tragic introduction."

Nothing more needs to be said when Tom gently places a hand on top of yours, almost crying at the cruel timing of the delivery driver knocking at your door which meant having to pull your hand away from him.

"I hope you like pepperoni pizza."

"My favourite."

The two of you converse easily over dinner and wine, words of a song settle nicely into the background and it feeds into the tranquil aura of the room. He explains that he snuck himself out of the palace with his two personal bodyguards who are parked outside the flat, the same two bodyguards that found your address and informed him of where he needed to go. He listens as you spill your life story, sharing memories of a younger self that he becomes infatuated with. Hours go by and as the sun sets behind the horizon, the candles slowly become your main source of light, plunging the room in a warm, flickering glimmer that illuminates just enough to see each other clearly. You feel warm, cosy even as you place yourself upon the fabric couch in the corner of the living room, joined very quickly by Tom and his glass of rosé.

You note how close he is to you and although you don't physically react to it, he does. His hand reaches to brush his knuckles gently over the highs of your cheeks, gliding all the way across until he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. Flustered, you divert your eyes to your hands twitching at your lap, deciding that his little gesture is the final defining piece of evidence to release the feelings you had been suppressing for weeks. First was his concern when you fell, then it was the numerous visits, then it was the unexpected but lovely dinner you shared, and now its the admiration twinkling in his eyes as he watches you coil into yourself.

You really, really like the Prince.

And you think he likes you too.

"This has been really nice. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm glad you got to spend your birthday the way you wanted to." It might've been the candles on the other side of the room, but something flickers in his eye. You can't quite decipher what. His finger teases down the line of your jaw very, very slowly. So soft, you barely feel it.

"I'm just hoping it can end the way I want it to." Entranced, you keep his gaze, flickering only to catch his tongue running across his bottom lip.

"How do you want it to end?" You ask, voice reduced to a mere whisper in the suffocating tension.

"Like this." Tom's finger curls beneath your chin, tilting your head as he guides you towards his lips, encasing your own with them. The sweet tang of wine blends together as he kisses you softly, opening you up with each second that passes by. The taste explodes when his tongue searches for your own, a brushing of soft silk as you melt together. It's unbearably slow and tests the patience of your twitching hands, aching to reach for the curls you know lie at the nape of his neck, but you don't want to seem too hasty, not when Tom indulges you like you're a rare flavour to savour.

With his fingers sliding into the roots of your hair, he places one final lasting kiss that drags out your bottom lip with the small nip of his teeth. It's so deliciously sensual that you can't even think about opening your eyes yet, not until you've caught your breath.

Tom's there and waiting for you when you eventually do, retaining the short distance between you just so he can feel the shortness of your breath against his lips. At least then, he knows he's done something right.

With just a millimetre of movement and without the need for a single word to be spoken, your noses brushes together and it speaks a message that reads loud and clear. In seconds, his lips are on yours again with a fiery passion, hungry as he encases your jawline within his hands. There isn't enough time in the world to possibly prepare for what you know is about to happen next as he coaxes you onto your back underneath him, his lips still craving the touch of yours. But all too soon they grow impatient, trailing down your jawline in search for something more, something that could tame the fire that's engulfing him inside. Towards your ear, behind it and down the slope of your neck, teasing out small clips of moans from your throat.

"Tom..." You whimper. He hums in acknowledgement, voice vibrating against the tender skin of your neck, but doesn't stop. Instead, his hand slithers up the outside of your thigh, contorting to the curve of your leg as it finds its way underneath the skirt of your dress. Just as his fingers repeatedly trace the lining of your underwear, he emerges in front of you, eyes locked in a spellbound gaze which you meet immediately.

"Do you want this?"

"More than anything."

Your words paint a smile on his lips, seen only for a second before he kisses you again, this time leaving it short and sweet because he wants your attention elsewhere. His hand, slow and meticulous like his kisses, eases its way under the seam and his fingertips feel every inch of your skin to deliberately build the anticipation, to fuel the craving in you that only he can satisfy and takes pleasure in watching you struggling to cope. He mirrors your reaction just as the tip of his finger brushes against your clit. You've never felt so sensitive yet desperate in all your life and you make it abundantly clear to him when you raise your hips in a bid to feel more.

Thankfully, you feel the weight of his fingers as they glide down your pussy with resolution, exploring more and more as they circle around your bud at just the right tempo.

"Fuck..." you whisper, sensing the knot twisting in your stomach, "please don't stop."

"I won't. Not until I have you screaming for me." The momentary pressure to your clit elicits a salacious yelp from your throat, proving to you that he is capable of getting what he demands. He is, after all, royalty. It's part of his nature.

"Keep your eyes on me," he demands. Your lazy eyes find his, fighting the urge to close them as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of an orgasm that's beginning to consume you. Yet to snap, you can already tell that he's going to have you cumming like no other man has and when you feel that burst of pleasure course through you, your instincts are right. Your pussy clenches, feeling nothing but the fine, precise movements of his fingers torturing your clit, unrelenting as he watches you twitch beneath him.

"Oh my god..." you whimper, reaching for his hand to dull his movements. "Too much, too much-"

He promptly removes his hand, fingers glistening with your slick...until they're not. Beguiled eyes watch as he places his fingers into his mouth, sucking what he can of your taste that it has him closing his eyes with an intense pleasure. Your heart pounds inside your chest watching him, another wave of excitement twitching at your legs while they pinch together.

"Fuck, darling, you taste so good," he lightly taps the side of your legs as he shuffles himself lower and lower, "legs up for me."

Shit. Nobody's done this to you before..."Tom-"

"Legs. Up." His hands find the crooks of your knees pushing them until they're pressed against your shoulders, legs swinging high into the air with your dress bunched at your waist. The cold bite of air reaches your cunt, made worse when Tom peels your underwear from you and blows a gentle breeze that cascades down your slit. Taking a breath, you swallow the thick lump in your throat and lie against the cushion, nervously waiting.

His warm, wet tongue meets your cunt, eagerly coating every inch until he finds your clit and takes it within his mouth. A very audible inhale reaches his ears which he takes as a cue to begin sucking on the little bud. Each sweep of his tongue triggers your legs to shake, your nerves to quiver inside you and the bubble to build. He warned you that all it would take for him to stop is the sound of your screams, and with that threat slowly materialising into reality, your stomach swirls inside you.

He laps and laps, sucks and flicks, indulges and savours until you reach breaking point. The mere fact of Tom being royalty has completely left your mind, and you don't hold back when you grip onto the tufts of his hair, undecided whether to pull him away or bring him closer.

"Fuck, I'm so close!"

"I need to hear you scream for me," he groans, that baritone voice of his vibrating against your clit. His tongue delves deeper, pressing into you that reflexes jerk you away from him.

"I'm not gonna stop. Not until I hear you." Firm hands grip onto your hips, dragging you back onto his amorous tongue.

"FUCK! PLEASE!"

"Do it, cum for me."

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out, at least not at first, not until you take another breath. Your orgasm hits you hard and fast, spiraling out of control the more Tom continues to eat at your cunt knowing he has yet to hear you scream for him. When tension finally snaps inside you does it release the long wail of overstimulation to scratch from your throat, shaped in the words of his name repeated over and over and over again in a desperate plea.

Tom acts quickly, taking the opportunity of your empty convulsing cunt and immediately fills you with his cock, hard and insatiably raw. He thrusts deeper and deeper into your spasm cunt, almost collapsing at the way you suck him in and keep him there but it's no match for the brutal, virile strength of his lust. He consumed by the sound of you, the sight of you, the feel of you that he can't stop, not even when you begin begging for mercy at the first touch of his fingers playing with your bud. It's just enough to prolong the orgasm riddling your body to grant him the satisfaction he craves what seems like hours later.

Tom gently collapses on top of you, sinking his head deep into the crook of your neck and it feels like a reward having his soft kisses meet your skin after feeling locked in such a tension for so long.

"You feel so fucking good," he murmurs into your ear, not long before he kisses the shell, biting and nipping his way to your lips.

~~~

Time almost seems to stand still as you mold yourselves to fit the shape of your bodies. Tom cradles your head, tucked neatly against his chest while his slow breaths skim across the crown of your head. While he intertwines his fingers with your hair, you circle a small pattern on his chest, warm with the rush of adrenaline. Unprovoked, he places a longing kiss against your forehead, his grip on you tightening the longer it lasts and you sense that there's a hidden meaning behind the sadness found tugging at your heart when he does it. A hidden message that perhaps you both knew since the moment he arrived but refused to give it life, because you both knew how much it would hurt to acknowledge.

As much of a fantasy dream this whole evening seemed, you are the one to fall back into reality first.

"The King and Queen don't know you're here do they?" He sighs loudly and shakes his head in defeat. "You didn't tell them...because you knew they wouldn't approve." Again, the silent response of his head nodding tells you he doesn't have the heart to face reality like you have. "It's okay."

"If I could change it all, I would. If it meant we could have this all time, I would change it in a heartbeat."

You snuggle even closer, "I know you would." You take another breath, afraid of the words sitting on the tip of your tongue. "Will...will this ever happen again?"

Distraught, he places another kiss to your forehead. "I don't know, darling. I don't know."

"But we'll figure it out, right?"

There's a hesitant sigh that seeps from his lips. "Right."

a/n: ouch that turned angsty at the end

#tom holland #prince!tom holland #tom holland x y/n #tom holland smut #fluff #angst #tom holland fic #tom holland imagine #AU #peter parker #request #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #no way home

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pradaksj · 4 years

Text

7 Rings | 03

♛ pairing: taehyung/reader

♛ rating: mature

♛ word count: 7,000+

♛ warnings for this chapter : light descriptions of anxious behavior (but nothing intense)

♛ summary: In desperate need of money, you and your best friend come up with a plan to infiltrate one of Seoul’s richest families, the Kim family. The plan was simple, garner some money and disappear, but of course things don’t always go as planned. Especially not with someone like Kim Taehyung.

━ ❝ Whoever said money can't solve your problems, must not have had enough money to solve 'em.❞

♛ chapter index/masterlist || series masterlist

Chapters⇢ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08

Present Day: Thursday Morning.

This was not supposed to happen, no, no, no. This was not what was planned, rehearsed, nor memorized. No, no, no!

You anticipate for him to scream, to snap at you and tell you off in front of everyone. It seemed fitting for someone like him to do, it’s what you expected.

You could feel all eyes on you, the venue itself had gone deaf silent, almost as if everyone else was holding their breath along with you, waiting to see your demise. You couldn’t blame them, you had spilled your drink on one of the most prestigious guests here, and though it wasn’t as if the world was going to end because of this, to you it felt like it. Your “mission” was going to end before it could even start.

Panic immediately overwhelms you. This was not at all how this was supposed to go. You wanted, no, you needed words to come out of your mouth, to say something, anything, but you couldn’t. Your mouth was completely frozen in place, and all you could do at the moment was stare at the big blob of red on his white buttoned up shirt, to which you were at fault for. Slowly you watch his mouth open, your mind immediately beginning to think the worst, but what comes out of his mouth completely surprises you.

He laughs.

The formation of a boxy smile takes its place on his face, his eyes now crinkling out of sheer laughter, and his hand now covering a portion of his face.

“I really didn’t mean to do that, oh my—” you finally blurt out, quickly grabbing a napkin and beginning to uselessly blot onto the already bleeding stain, but almost immediately feeling a hand grab at yours, stopping you from what you were doing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he reassures, slowly pushing your hand away from his shirt.

You immediately shake your head, your words now faltering in cohesion, “No it’s not, I r-really didn’t mean to do that, I just—”

“And I’m telling you it’s okay,” he repeats himself, “I think you’ve done the most interesting thing around here in a very long time,” he whispers, sticking his hand out for you to shake, “I’m Taehyung,” he introduces himself, as if you didn’t know who he was.

The words themselves come out exactly like how Yuna would imitate during “rehearsal”. Though his voice was of course much deeper, almost reminding you of silk, seductive in it’s own way. You finally look up to see him, to actually see him face to face, immediately feeling your face get red.

It surprised you really, you had seen Kim Taehyung a countless number of times on TV, on several gossip blog headlines, posters, magazine covers, and an endless number of promotional advertisements all across Korea, but wow did they do him no justice. The man was truly stunning, and with every passing second you made eye contact with him, you could see why he was South Korea’s most sought out person.

From the sharp facial features, to the slightly sun-kissed skin that seemed to have its own natural glow, and his (what you assumed was permed) black softly-waved hair, made him in every way … dangerous. Kim Taehyung was dangerous, and you knew it. And it was important that you remembered that, because if you didn’t then things were not going to go as planned and quickly at that.

It took you, what felt like a whole hour, to finally process that his hand had been stuck out for who knows how long. “Get a grip of yourself y/n,” you thought to yourself, the only reason you were so nervous was because you knew what your intentions being here were, no one else here did.

“Don’t panic, breathe, recuperate, and adapt,” Yuna’s words rang in your head, as it was what she’d emphasize you do, just in case something went wrong or unplanned, “You are someone confident, you are someone poised, and most importantly you are someone rich,” she’d scold you, practically drilling the words into your head. You just hadn’t expected that you were going to have to use her advice this early on. “You got this,” you silently whisper to yourself, just breathe.

And so just as you saw him beginning to pull his hand back, you quickly grabbed it and began to shake it in return, “I’m y/n,” you nervously grin, “I’m so sorry about that, I just—” you faintly pause, “I guess you can say I just get shy around people I don’t know and well I just got so nervous,” you embarrassingly ramble on, pushing your hair behind your ear.

“Like I said it’s fine, really,” he says, looking down at the stain which for the most part was no longer as wet as before, now only damp in moisture, “It’s just a shirt really,” he chuckles.

“I know, but still,” you reiterate. You silently take a look around the venue. People had seemed to have quickly forgotten about what had transpired, going back to their regular day to day conversations without a care in the world, “It’s just that I’m new around here and well I just want to make a good impression on people,” you explain, your words clearly catching his attention.

“Oh, where are you from?” he harmlessly asks, genuine curiosity emitted from his tone.

“I’m from—”

The Day Before: Wednesday Evening.

“The United States?—No, No! Seoul! No! Uh—” you immediately feel the squirts of ice cold water on your face from Yuna’s plastic spray bottle, the twentieth time today.

“Wrong!” she scolds, spritzing you one more time for the heck of it causing Hoseok to burst out in fits laughter, for again, the twentieth time today.

You dramatically let out a huff of air in irritation, as well as pouting and crossing your arms in annoyance, “How many times do we have to go over this y/n!” Yuna screeches, grabbing her metal pointer stick, and harshly hitting the cheap whiteboard covered in red messy scribbles that you two bought the night before, “You’re from Seoul, but you moved with your rich old family to the states a couple of years ago, and you’re back here on vacation for the next ten weeks because you were “homesick”, which explains why he’s never seen you before in his life!” she explains, “What’s not clicking?” she says, now tapping her forehead with her index finger.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” you sneered.

“Well y/n! We can’t afford any mistakes, and it’s very important you know the basics because the moment he catches you in a lie, all bets are off on that money,” she sighs, her face now softening, “I know that right now you may think I’m being a bitch right now, but trust me, you’ll thank me later,” she snaps her head towards Hoseok’s direction, who for the past hour had been doing nothing but devouring snacks while watching the two of you bicker, “Am I right or wrong?” she asks, causing him to raise his hands as a way of saying he wanted no part in this.

You squint your eyes at him, “Maybe if we had more time, I’d be less strict about all this, but time is on the essence! Ten weeks will go by in the blink of an eye,” she adds, causing you to grunt because sadly she had a point, “So back to the top!” she yells, her facial expression going back to being firm, “Where are you from?”

You roll your eyes, “I’m from—”

Present Day

“Seoul, but you’ve stayed in the states, huh? That’s really cool, I’ve only been to LA and New York a couple of times for certain events… so what was your experience like over there?” he asks, taking a sip from his mimosa.

You don’t hesitate to answer, the response ingrained in your brain, “It was really nice, though I found myself being homesick quite often if we’re being honest,” he nods his head.

“Ah, yeah I completely get where you’re coming from, I—” he catches himself mid-sentence, shaking his head, as if disappointed with himself, “There’s just no place like Seoul huh,” he says instead, to which you nod in agreement.

You proceed in planting the seed to Yuna’s plan, “I have to go back in a couple of weeks though, I still have a year left to go for my bachelor’s, and well I’m really just here for visits sake,” you explain, your nerves slowly withering away. The more you spoke, the more natural things were beginning to feel, smooth and easy like melted butter on toast.

And in a way you weren’t entirely lying. You were going to have to leave at some point, you did have a year left in school, and technically you were just a temporary visitor in this whole world of the rich. Of course, there were some major differences between the truth and what you were leading him on to believe, but at the end of the day this wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“Oh I see, what are you majoring in?” he politely asks, silently hoping he wasn’t intruding too much. Taehyung for the first time in a very long time, felt nervous. For one thing, you were very pretty, breathtakingly so, he almost felt like a kid with a schoolboy crush. It was quite embarrassing really.

But Taehyung was waiting. He was waiting for you to do something or say something that would confirm that you weren’t the person he’s hoping you to be, that you were in fact a stuck up brat just like the many he’d seen and met before. That you were just like anyone else here who solely cared for numbers, and their own personal riches. It was as if he was anticipating the feeling of disappointment.

“Business, accounting if we’re being specific,” you respond to his question, breaking him from his train of thought, “I’ve always been pretty good with numbers,” you say, “but not enough to become a full on STEM major or anything like that,” you joke, garnering a light chuckle from him, which you could easily tell was completely fake.

Maybe he was right, maybe you were just like the rest of them.

“I see, I see, I just finished my studies recently,” he comments, “I majored in finance though,” he says, which ultimately doesn’t surprise you. Not only because it seemed fitting for someone like him to get a bachelors in that field, but because you basically memorized his Wikipedia page as well. Supposedly having gotten into and graduating from SNU based on his own merit. Though you had your doubts of course, it was probably just best to keep your thoughts to yourself.

What you needed to focus on was getting him to ask you out on a date, considering an awkward silence on both ends had now arisen. A part of you was now severely worried about that date not happening anytime soon. Did you say something wrong? Maybe he wasn’t as interested in you anymore? Business is a pretty boring major, but it’s what Yuna told you to say, and well it is what you were actually majoring in. Maybe you should say something? No, just stick to the script. He isn’t saying anything though….

“Originally I wanted to major in photography,” you blurt out, catching him by surprise, “I was gonna minor in it, but being an accounting major was hard enough as it was, and well family pressure,” you say, your fingers tapping against the surface of the bar, “Nowadays it’s more of a hobby I do, here and there,” you say, curiosity now apparent on his face.

What you were telling him was in fact true, you loved photography, at one point even wanting to make a career out of it, but to become a professional photographer was hard enough as it was. In all honesty, you respected those who had the ability to confidently pursue their dreams. People like Yuna for example, who despite the risk of failing being high, never gave up. It was a risk you were unwilling to take, preferring a secured financial future over the latter.

“I especially like candid photography, there’s just something about it,” you ramble on, “it’s relaxing in a sense, like you learn to be more appreciative of what’s in front of you,” you gush, almost forgetting why you were talking about this topic to begin with.

Taehyung on the other hand looked at you with a grin on his face, finding your babbling amusing to say the least. It was in every way adorable.

“I have these binders at home filled with—” before you could continue on, the sound of a phone ringing interrupts. A look of annoyance now appears on Taehyung’s face, as he begrudgingly took out his phone from his pocket, hesitating to accept the phone call.

“You don’t mind if I—” you quickly nod your head, flashing him a superficial smile, as he momentarily stepped away from the bar.

You quickly took a sigh of relief once he was no longer in view, taking this as an opportunity to take a breather. Personally, you didn’t like this tense feeling, and you could imagine how much more heightened it’d be in these upcoming weeks. “Could it perhaps be … guilt?” you think to yourself, you quickly shake off the idea.

“I’m sorry about that,” you hear his voice, failing to hide the peeved look on his face.

“No, it’s fine, really,” you insist. A pregnant pause now in the air.

“I was hoping—”

“Are you—” both of your cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“Oh my bad, what were you going to say?” you ask.

“No, you can go first,” he smiles.

“No, no, you go ahead,” you persist.

“You sure?” he asks, to which you nod in return.

“Well I have to go right now, attend to some personal errands and stuff,” he glances down at the stain, “also change out of this shirt,” he jokes, “but um,” he momentarily hesitates, “But I was hoping we could go out some time, grab some coffee or something.” Bingo. Step one, check. “I mean unless you don’t like coffee, I don’t know why I assumed you did, we can always get like smoothies or something, um,” he falters, his hand now scratching the back of his neck. “Hm cute,” you think to yourself.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” you grin, “I was going to say the same thing actually, but yes I would love to get coffee with you, ” you respond.

“Perfect! I was thinking maybe tomorrow evening, around 10AM? I’ll pick you up,” he states, the excitement clearly evident.

“Yeah, sounds great,” you giggle.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he waves, before turning around and beginning to walk away. But after a couple of seconds he abruptly stops in his tracks and turns back around, causing you to genuinely laugh as you knew why he had stopped.

“I really forgot to ask for your number…” he facepalms himself.

Thursday Night.

“You had one job!” Yuna dramatically flails her arms around, she and Hoseok now having been filled in on everything that happened this morning.

“And I got it done, didn’t I?” you retort, causing Yuna to roll her eyes, mumbling a sassy “I guess” in return.

“You’re so lucky I don’t have my spraying bottle on me right now,” she jokes around, but a part of her was more likely than not actually serious about it.

“Anyways, I’m surprised he actually ended up going up to me after all,” you mused, “Didn’t think it’d actually work.”

“Well with what I had you wearing, of course he was going to go up to you little miss y/n! A ruched floral dress with a summer straw hat at an all white attire event? Do you have no faith in me woman! Actually no, have some faith in yourself!” she loudly lectures you, playfully hitting the side of your arm. “The bad posture was something you already had experience with on your own merit,” she teases, causing her to start dying of laughter at her own joke.

You scowl in return, “Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny,” you grumble out, subconsciously fixing your posture.

“Anyways, what was the famous Kim Taehyung like? Is he really the heartthrob everyone makes him out to be,” Hoseok chimes in, his chin resting against his hand, eager to know the more about your encounter, “Come on, I need details, not no flimsy recap.”

“Um…” you hesitate with your next choice of words, “he’s um..” how could you describe Taehyung? He certainly wasn’t what you thought he was going to be like, “He’s a,” you pause, the two in front of you now looking at you with eager eyes, “He’s a nice guy… for now at least,” you conclude, surprising both Hoseok and Yuna alike. “I—” you sigh, “I think apart of me, like a very little tiny part is already starting to feel gu—”

“Ah! Don’t you even say it!” Yuna interjects.

“You didn’t let me finish!” you scold, immediately causing Yuna’s mouth to go shut. “Though a small part of me does feel guilty,” you pause, “at the end of the day Kim Taehyung is nothing but a rich boy with a grand old penthouse, flashy cars, and has enough money that could last him for several lifetimes. His father is a multi millionaire tycoon who from what I’ve heard exploits people for his own personal gain. Two sides of the same fucking coin. And so maybe right now he may seem like some nice guy, but it’s probably all an act. I’m not the bad guy here, I know I’m not. And I’ll be damned to let anyone, even if it’s myself, convince me otherwise, not with what I have at stake,” you finish off, staring at the invoices which were held up by magnets on your refrigerator, a reminder of what you were doing all of this for.

Kim Taehyung is nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess, and it was your job to make sure he stayed in that position. Nothing more, nothing less.

Earlier That Day.

“You called me?” Taehyung enters his father’s office, still feeling aggravated at the sudden interruption from earlier. His father doesn’t even bother to look up from his pile of papers, only making a quick motion at Taehyung to sit down on the arm chair placed across his desk.

The sound of silence filled the room, as his father continued to scribble down who knows what, on his sheets of papers, clearly focused on what was in front of him which only bothered Taehyung more. “Was there a point to all of this?” he thought to himself.

“Yes there is,” his father suddenly said, causing Taehyung to straighten up, not realizing that he must’ve said what he was thinking aloud. He finally looks up to face Taehyung, the stern look he always had on, well placed on his face. He quickly pulls open his drawer and grabs what seems to be a magazine out, smacking it on his desk for Taehyung to see. He sighs, “So you care to explain what this is all about?”

The title, in a big bold yellow colored font, reads, “Kim Taehyung Gets Physical With Paparazzi, Trouble in Paradise?” accompanied by a collage of photos which included Taehyung post physical-assault on the paparazzo and his argument with Sunhi, all painting him as some kind of villain. Taehyung remained silent, instead avoiding eye contact, only causing his father to let out a sardonic laugh, his frustration clearly evident.

“Ah Taehyung,” he starts off, “I feel like we’ve had this conversation many, many, times,” he lets out another sarcastic chuckle, “and I have to say, you had me fooled when you told me you were ready to come back,” he continuously taps his fingers on his desk in a rhythmic pattern.

“You don’t get—”

“I don’t care for the sob stories Taehyung, I really don’t,” he interrupts, finally snapping, “In fact I have staff telling me that is was Sunhi who cheated on you, something along those lines,” he mumbles, “What you do on your free time, or who you’re seeing is really none of my concern,” he pauses, “until it has the potential to affect my business, and the image it upholds,” he clarifies.

“I know,” Taehyung hisses.

“Then those little antics you used to like to pull off shouldn’t be making a return,” he narrows his eyes at his son, “because we all know the results of those,” he harshly reminds him, causing Taehyung to ball his fist in anger, “So I suggest you get a hold of yourself, quickly at that, so that I don’t have to clean up your messes like before,”

“You don’t have to remind me every waking fucking moment,” Taehyung harshly says, getting up from the chair. His father is quick to do the same, the two now facing each other, the desk being their only barrier.

“And who the hell do think you’re talking to like that,” his father spits, “It was me who got you out of that mess that night, hell if it weren’t for me you’d be behind prison bars at this very moment,” Taehyung looks away, his eyes now watering, “You should be nothing but grateful,” Taehyung quickly wipes the tear that uncontrollably rolls down his cheek. The feeling of shame now overshadowing the feeling of anger he originally felt. He attempts to take deep breaths, anything to prevent himself from looking any more like a coward. He didn’t want to cry, no he refused to cry, especially not in front of his father.

“A house made of glass trying to throw brick stones,” his dad scoffs, “Ironic really,” a vile smirk now on his face, “just get out my sight already, consider this a warning,” he concludes before sitting back down and continuing his work, acting as if nothing had happened. Taehyung stood there for what felt like forever, his eyes still brimmed with tears, before silently making his way out into the hall.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” he kept telling himself as he made his way down to the lobby, but it was hard. He could feel the lump in his throat waiting to be let out, as well as how his lip would quiver whenever he’d force himself to smile at the several staff members who would politely greet him. It was almost as if he was suffocating.

He unlocked his car door and made his way inside, immediately punching the steering wheel in subdued frustration. He looked at himself from the car mirror, staring at his red puffy eyes, still refusing to allow himself to cry despite being alone. Instead he took more deep breaths, once again tucking away the turmoil he’d been feeling for a very long time back into the depths of his heart.

Turning on the ignition of his car, he made his way out of the building’s parking lot, quickly shaking off what had happened. He had a date to look forward to tomorrow morning, and he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin that.

Friday Morning.

“Ta da!” Yuna shimmys her hands, proud of the outfit she’s ensembled. She was definitely making use of Mrs. Choi’s closet, “You don’t think this is a little too much?” you question, feeling slightly insecure about what you were wearing, the tan beret on your head slowly becoming crooked. This was definitely better than anything you’d pick on your own for a morning cup of coffee, that was for sure.

“Oh of course not!” Yuna exclaims while quickly fixing your hair, “Now put this on top of the turtle neck,” she says, passing you a brown plaid double-breasted coat, “and then,” she glances at the two bags in her hands, debating which color would look best before ultimately picking the cream colored cross-bag, “put this over it.”

She claps her hands together, clearly proud of her fashion sense. “The perfect outfit for your date, doesn’t she look so pretty Hobi?” she gushes. Hoseok looks up from his phone, the three of you were now on a nickname basis.

“So she does,” he smiles, “but maybe a black bag might fit the outfit better,” Yuna’s eyebrows quickly furrow.

“Hey leave the fashion to me, computer boy!” Yuna playfully squints her eyes at him.

“I’m just saying! A white turtleneck and a cream colored bag isn’t the look you think it is.”

“Yeah well,” she puckers her lips like a kid, unable to think of anything to counter with, she instead says, “that uniform you’re wearing is ugly!” causing a dramatic offended look to appear on his face.

“Oh I’ll have you know—”

“Will you two stop with the bickering?” you interrupt him before he could attack in return, “Taehyung is going to get here any moment, and you,” you point at Yuna, “need to start heading to work, while you,” you point to Hoseok, “need to get back to work,” you reaffirm, silencing the two who were now staring at you like lost puppies, “Well what are you waiting for, shoo!” you commanded, your statement coming off a little more harsher than you intended, but you blamed it on your nerves. You couldn’t help it because well, you were indeed very nervous.

“Ah okay, okay. Let us know how it goes!” Yuna says, before dragging Hoseok by the arm and leading eachother out. “And remember to stay calm and collective!” he shouts before being yanked on by Yuna.

You let out a deep breath of air. You hadn’t been on a date in a very long time, and though one could consider this a “fake” date on your part, it was a date nonetheless. You needed to leave a good impression, enough that he'd be willing to take you out again after today.

[From: Taehyung]

[9:55] Hey, I’m around the corner from the address you texted me :) I should be outside in like 2 mins

[9:55] i'm in the black mercedes benz btw

[To: Taehyung]

[9:55] perfect ☺️ i’ll be out right now then.

You fix your hair one last time, making sure everything looked perfect. “It’s not a date, just two strangers getting coffee together,�� you reassure yourself one last time before making your way out.

The car ride to the coffee shop per se wasn’t awkward, but formal to say the least. Of course, Taehyung didn’t exactly expect you to immediately be talkative once you stepped into the car, but judging by how stiff you remained the whole car ride, and the lack of conversation there was, he also knew that he didn’t want you to feel timid to talk or as if you had to hold yourself back in front of him. He wanted things to feel natural, like how you were when you were talking about photography, where he could tell you were genuinely just being yourself.

Honestly he was used to women usually going out of their way to show off in front of him, or to make themselves seem like someone they weren’t simply to impress him, so this was definitely... different than what he was used to. But for some reason it made him even more curious to get to know you, eager to see what you were hiding behind that brick wall of an exterior you’ve seemed to have set up for yourself. He assumed it was going to take time for you to warm up to him, but the problem was that Taehyung wasn’t much of a patient person to begin with.

“After you,” he says, politely opening the door to the coffee shop for you. You whisper “thank you” to the small, but kind gesture.

The coffee shop in itself was very cute. From the cushioned cream-colored loveseats decorated by pillows you’d find overpriced on Wayfair, to the bright lighting provided by a massive roof skylight, and lastly the wooden bookshelves decorated with a variety of different novels, all which gave the coffee shop a very pleasant home-like feeling to it. If you could describe it in one word it’d be “warm”.

You stood there like a lost child for a moment, unsure of what to order as you studied the menu. They had a variety of drinks, things you were sure you had never even heard of, either that or they just had a fancy way of describing everything in order to boost up the price. “So any idea on what you want?” he asks.

“Um,” honestly you really weren’t much of a coffee drinker, having ordered the same drink at Starbucks for the past several years, “Surprise me,” you awkwardly smile, before making your way (practically running) to a wooden table next to a window view.

You were definitely peeved with yourself because you knew that you needed to stop being so damn quiet because God was that car ride awkward, insufferable almost. But you just weren’t good at this kind of stuff, never had been.

Even during high school when you had gone on your first ever official date, you ended having an utter meltdown in the restroom after your date awkwardly pointed out that you had a piece of spinach stuck in between your teeth, a waitress on break had to comfort you before you could even step out again. Even then you had your mouth glued shut afterward, paranoid about embarrassing yourself again.

And that wasn’t the only embarrassing incident you’ve encountered in past dates, there had been plenty more, but that would take a hefty amount of time to talk about.

Point was, you’d always find yourself acting like a turtle hiding in its shell or like a pufferfish, blurting out the most random and embarrassing things at any given moment. It was always one or the other and it always left you with a humiliating story to tell Yuna, a prime example being accidently spilling your drink on the son of a multimillionaire. You kept anxiously bouncing your leg as you watched him order at the cashier register, thinking of ways to start a conversation.

“I got you a heavenly toffee, it’s an espresso with toffee nut syrup, caramel cream, almond milk, and whipped cream,” he places the drink on the table for you, “I figured you could never go wrong with something sweet,” he smiles.

“Oh wow,” you say, genuinely delighted with his choice, “their mugs are so pretty,” you quietly comment, observing the intricate design on the ceramic mug.

“Yeah it’s definitely one of my favorite coffee shops in the area, I also recommend this one called Seoul’s Magnificent Mocha, they have good drinks as well,” he chuckles, recalling his last visit there.

“Well if I’m being completely honest, I’ve never been too enthusiastic for coffee, but,” you take a sip of the drink in front of you, “I have to say this is really good,” you laugh, pleasantly surprised at the sweetness of the drink, you could hardly even taste the bitterness of the coffee.

“So y/n, tell me a little bit about yourself,” he says while taking a sip of his own coffee.

“Oh well hm—” you try to recall the things Yuna would tell you to say, but with Taehyung intensely staring at you, your mind had gone completely blank, “well,” you felt your face getting red at the pressure you felt, your ears definitely feeling hot, “there’s not much to say really. I’m a pretty boring person,” you let out a very awkward chuckle, looking down in embarrassment.

“Don’t say that,” he says, “we could start off with something simple, like,” he looks up for a moment in thought, “what’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow,” you simply state, no commentary, no “What about yours”, no nothing, Yuna would probably squirt you with her bottle 100 times if she was there. Your brain was having a “we threw out his name” moment from Spongebob. Nothing but fire and chaos going on in there.

“Oh…” he pressed his lips together, slightly disheartened at your lack of enthusiasm. Was there something wrong with him? Maybe he was just badgering too much? Before he could dwell on it too long, the sound of a camera flashing caught both his and your attention.

“Oh no,” you quickly think to yourself, immediately turning away from the window in order to cover your face. Taehyung didn’t bother to question as to why you had turned so quickly because he was quick to do the same. Your reason being was that you couldn’t afford to land on the front cover of a magazine or appear on a gossip channel because the moment your mom saw from her hospital bed, it’d be a wrap for you.

“Damn it,” he groaned, “I thought it’d be too early for them to follow me out here,” he says. Honestly, Taehyung didn’t mind the paparazzi taking pictures of him, at this point he was used to it. But what he didn’t want was to put you in the spotlight with no say on your part, especially knowing how stalkerish the paparazzi could be. The moment they got a clear identity as to who you were, you’d be followed until the end of time, and he would definitely feel guilty for that.

“We gotta get out of here before more of them arrive,” he cursed, “Just don’t look back,” he directs, slowly turning his head back to see if he could spot where the person taking pictures was. “Alright the guy seems to be planted from afar, so I think we can walk out the entrance, just make sure you cover your face with your hand or something or you could use your beret,” he jokes around. “You don’t gotta tell me twice,” you think to yourself.

You nod at his directions, the two of you quickly getting up and putting your mugs away, before speed walking back to the car. You could only cross your fingers that a clear photo of you wasn’t taken.

Taehyung quickly zoomed out of the area, but despite his efforts, everytime he glanced at his rear-view mirror he could spot the black van still following him, which only put him in a bad mood.

“I’m gonna have to drop you off at the back or something, or else you’ll find men always outside your building for the rest of your trip until they find out who exactly are you,” Taehyung scowled, mad at himself for being so careless. You wordlessly nod your head, a little intimidated at how angry he looked.

The car ride back to your place is quiet, nothing different than the car ride to the coffee shop. “I’m sorry,” he exhales once you guys are outside the building, “I should’ve been more careful,” he mutters, internally scolding himself.

You shake your head in disagreement, “Trust me, it’s fine, it’s expected really,” you mumble, your words causing him to feel a slight sting to the heart. Though he didn’t even know you well enough for your words to genuinely hurt, for some reason they did.

“Well I’ll text see you some other time Taehyung,” you formally bow your head, getting out of the car, and quickly walking into Mr. Choi's building, leaving him taken aback by your words. One could say he was looking into your word choice a little too much, but no, he knew exactly what you meant. And so with that he left feeling disheartened.

“So how’d it go?” Hoseok catches you right as you enter the elevator.

“Horrible, it went horrible,” you state, the elevator doors closing before you could say anything else.

Saturday Morning.

“Your kimchi came out way too salty,” your mom criticizes, taking a bite of the food you’ve brought, “should've added root vegetable or something,” she shakes her head in dismay. She expects you to fire back with a remark, but instead she watches as you just sit in the hospital chair, eating your food in pout.

Today was your visiting day, and though you tried to hide your dismay at yesterday’s date when talking to your mom, it kept popping up in the back of your mind like an annoying itch. Of course your mom had noticed your odd behavior from the moment you walked in, but for you to be eating in pout meant that whatever it was that was on your mind, must've really been bothering you.

“Now are you gonna care to explain why you’re feeling so down,” she questions, “or are you going to keep sulking in your seat,” she chuckles.

You wrinkle your nose, “It’s nothing ma,” you try deflecting the conversation, your gaze wandering to the TV.

“Ah so it’s about a boy,” she laughs, causing your head to snap in her direction, a puzzled look now on your face.

“And what makes you so sure?”

She shrugs, “Because I’m your mom and I’ve seen that look many times,” she grabs the remote from the hospital’s bed stand, subsequently turning off the TV, “come on, I’m in cool mom mode now,” she cringely says, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Oh god,” you mumble, loudly sighing before beginning, “so there’s this boy,” you start off.

“I knew it,” she sings, jokingly winking at you.

“I went on a date with him the other day and well I don’t know, I tensed up, you know how I get,” you explain, downwarding your gaze to the floor in shame as you recalled your behavior from the day before.

“Mm,” she hums, sounding unconvinced, “well there must be a reason as to why you got so tensed up, and I’m sure you know why,” she deadpans, her face now becoming stern. So much for being in “cool mom” mode.

“Well I don’t—”

“No, no, no, I’m not accepting your excuses,” she vigorously shakes her head.

You sigh, “I just,” you pause, remembering that you needed to be careful with your words, “I just really want him to like me that’s all.”

“And?”

You groan, “And well I feel like I have to act a certain way or be a certain way in order for him to like me,” you explain, “and I just don’t think I have it in me. I don’t think he’s the type of person to like me, well for me, I guess you can say he’s like the popular kid in those high school movies, you know?” you let out a dry laugh knowing that the situation was much more than that.

“Well can you tell me a little about this boy?” she quieres, grabbing a strand of your hair and beginning to play with it.

“Well I’m not going to give you details because for all I know we might end up bad,” you say, making an excuse so that you wouldn't have to give a name, “but this guy, well he’s been told to have a reputation. He’s selfish, he’s reckless, he’s rude, and the only person he cares for is himself,” you rant, your mother now seeming taken aback by your description.

“Is that what people tell you, or is that what you think?” she laughs, “because the way you just said that, it seems like those are your personal feelings about him, and so I can’t help but wonder why you would want to go out with someone like that,” she wonders. “Oh honey, you have no idea why,” you think to yourself.

“Well because that’s what people like him are, that’s what they’ve always proven themselves to be, it’s what—”

“You assume he’s going to be like,” she cuts you off, her tone now dismissive.

“It’s what I know he’s going to be like,” you retaliate, crossing your arms like a little kid, causing her to laugh.

“Oh y/n y/n y/n,” she continues playing with your hair, “I want you to listen to what I have to say, okay? And then once I’m done, you can either take my advice to the heart, or let it go in one ear and out the other, alright?” you hum in response.

“Okay so the first thing I want to talk about,” she clears her throat, “is that it’s wrong of you to make assumptions about this person, or anyone in general.”

“I know but—”

“Ah, what’d I tell you about listening. You didn’t let me finish,” she scolds, gently tugging the strand of hair she was playing with, “I want you to go on another date with him, but open minded this time y/n. No preconceived notions, no overanalyzations of the things he does so that you can make him fit into the mold you’ve made for him, no nothing, and the same goes for you,” she takes a sip of her water bottle, giving you a chance to quickly say something.

“But ma, the girls I’ve seen him date in the past, I’m,” you sigh, “I’m nothing like them,” her eyebrows immediately furrow.

“And who said you had to be anything like them?” she grabs your hand, causing you to quietly stare at her, “but this leads to my second point. No more putting pressure on yourself to be someone you’re not,” she softly nudges your shoulder, “Just give him one genuine chance, just one, and if it’s not meant to be then it’s not meant to be,” she says, finishing her little speech.

“But I want him to like me,” your voice cracks, desperately wanting to replace the word “want” with “need”.

“Hey don’t cry,” she chuckles, quickly pulling you in for a hug, “Trust me y/n, as long as you be yourself, any boy who's lucky enough to get to know you will fall in love. I promise you that.” she softly whispers into your ear. And with her words you could immediately feel the pressure come off your shoulders, the words not only comforting, but hitting home. “Okay so I need you to promise me that the next time you see him, it’ll be a fresh new slate for both him and you, alright? Shake off, whatever you have on your mind, and just enjoy what’s in front of you.”

“Okay,” you breathe out, deciding that your mom was right, things needed to change, and you were going to do just that.

Saturday Night.

“So how did that coffee date of yours go?” Namjoon mentions, causing Taehyung to frown at the memory.

“If I’m being honest, not that well,” he sighs, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from his alcohol shelf.

Namjoon’s face scrunches in confusion, “Well, what went wrong this time?” he laughs.

Taehyung shrugs, trying his best to seem unfazed, “I don’t know, I guess she just wasn’t that into me,” he comments on you lightly, “Maybe it was for the best, I don’t really have time for another relationship anyway, not with my busy schedule,” he says, taking a sip from his drink.

“Busy schedule, but you had the time to go get coffee immediately the next day after meeting her, with no second thought? Yeah that makes sense,” Namjoon teases, causing Taehyung to roll his eyes.

“Like I said, I don’t know, she just was not budging, it was like speaking to a brick wall the whole time, and I’m sure if the paparazzi hadn’t interrupted it would have remained like that the whole time,” he sneers while pushing his hair back, “which is weird cause I don’t know there was just something about her, I just can’t describe it, but I just know she was holding back.” he explains, causing Namjoon to snort, “But anyways, it’s my fault, I set my expectations too high, thinking I was going to find love at first sight, actually no I blame you for putting those thoughts into my head.”

Namjoon raises his hands in defense, “Hey, all I did was pressure you to go up to her, everything else was your own head’s doing.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right, I’m just gonna be a lone wolf for a —” the sound of a “ding” interrupts Taehyung before he could complete his sentence, and so he checks his phone to see who could’ve texted him.

Namjoon stares at Taehyung who was now intently staring at his phone, looking quite flabbergasted, “Well, what is it?” he questions, a goofy grin now slowly appearing on the wavy haired young man’s face.

“I,” he lets out a chuckle, “I think I’m going on a date tomorrow night,” he faintly blushes, turning his phone to show Namjoon the text he just read, which reads:

[From: y/n]

[9:02 PM] you + me, tomorrow @ 5:30 , Ilsan lake park, i’ll bring what we need.

[9:02 PM] yes or yes?? 😇

[To: y/n]

[9:03 PM] i’ll see you then 😅

a/n 🧚🏻 : did I mention this is slow burn???? LOL. originally I was going to include date #2 on here because I only want this series to be a max of like 8-10 chapters, butttt I also wanted to update so ... but all the buildup will (hopefully) be worth itttt. the smut is coming soon in other words LMAO. I also took a while to update bc I was trying not to make y/n too annoying and just make the characterization how I pictured it to be, like I needed to establish the generalization she has on the Taehyung but IDK lmk what you think, message me, comment, send an anon, anything is welcome 🤍

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palbabor-writes · 4 years

Text

Yōkai

Hawks Week 2020 - Prompt: Horror Tales

Warnings: Ghosts, spirits, blood, gore, adult language, death, mentions of violent crime

Word Count: 9403

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t.

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Notes: I went with a whodunit theme for this fic with some healthy ghosts and haunts thrown in. As this is pre-All Might’s retirement, Hawks is the #3 Hero.

Yōkai

Yōkai are a class of supernatural monsters and spirits in Japanese folklore. The word 'yōkai' is made up of the kanji for "bewitching; attractive; calamity" and "spectre; apparition; mystery; suspicious."

The small island of Miyako is renowned for its turquoise waters, pristine coral sanctuaries, amusement parks, and sprawling mansions. All in all, it’s a trust fund tourist trap. Still, like most pristine and shiny things, there’s a seedier underbelly that’s scrapes against the rough, sandy bottom. Come at low tide and you’ll catch a whiff of decay and rot.

Miyako Island is another example of that duality that exists within everything. No matter how pretty the water, there are always dark creatures that lurk in the shallow shoals and coves.

Hawks isn’t looking forward to his new assignment on the island. He’s been called in by the HPSC and Miyako’s police force. There’s been a string of unsolved murders and, with the onset of August, tourist season is in full swing. Homicide is bad publicity during the best of times. But, combine the discovery of freshly charred corpses popping up in various buildings, piers, and alleyways, with mass hysteria and you’re going to have a big problem on your hands.

For eight open murder cases, there’s not much for Hawks to go on, and the data he does have is spotty.

Hawks poured over the notes as soon as he got off the phone with the HSPC, the luster of the new assignment fresh in his mind. He swiped through the briefings and crime scene photos that were attached in the long email from Miyako’s chief of police.

It looks like the trouble started in the poorer areas of town. No matter how bright the city lights shine, there’s always the common shadow of a downtrodden, overworked, and underpaid populous straining under the weight of “keeping up appearances.”

Who else would do the nitty gritty jobs that ensured that the tourist season stayed afloat, and, most important of all, profitable?

Sadly, it’s the blue collar areas that first experienced the horrors. The notes on these cases are borderline elitist, skirting close to xenophobic. The usual: ‘it was just something that happened when you crammed people in that close’. ‘What else did you expect’? ‘Most of the victims aren’t even from the island’. ‘They’re strangers, they’re not locals.’ ‘They’re not one of us’.

The word immigrant pops up in the documentation frequently and it feels like a slur each time it appears. There’s a slinking, cloying animosity curling behind the looping words.

It pisses Hawks off.

The only reason he’s been called is because the crimes have jumped over the poverty line. Now, two prominent members of Miyako society have been murdered. So, what’s the connection you ask?

It’s the state of the bodies.

All of the victims, rich or poor, have been mutilated. Something sharp was drawn across their skin, cutting and splicing, marring them, marking them. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they’d been set aflame. It must have been a scorching blaze. Something that leaves them so crisped and blackened that they’re more husk than human. In each case, it’s taken dental records to identify the deceased.

The Miyako chief of police is doing a review of the known peculiars with Hawks.

“They mirror the, uh, earlier crime scenes. As you can see, this one, she is, er, was a woman in her late 30’s-”

“She was 37,” Hawks supplies, his golden eyes running over the chart that the chief of police is showing him. He’s trying his best to hide his agitation, but his feathers still bristle, the red plumage flaring, refusing to lay against his back.

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, it’s supposed to be bad luck. You know?”

“I don’t. Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?”

Hawks has to grit his teeth to keep his tone even. He’s really not liking the way these crime scenes are processed and he’s made his opinion known to the police chief and investigative team. Why now, he’d pressed, hours after flying in, sweat still clinging to his brow. Why didn’t the bodies matter when it was relegated to the lower socio-economic citizens?

He’s also critical and skeptical of the motives of this police chief. There’s something about the whole thing that feels...off.

But, now’s not the time to project that suspicion. He’s only just arrived, besides, he needs more information, more data. Despite his agitation, he gets why the HPSC sent him on this assignment. He’s known for doing things quickly. Plus, he’s usually calm, collected, and he’s got the clout to get things moving again.

He’s also observant. The HPSC both loves and hates this particular skill of his, but it’s to their benefit in this instance. His sharp eyes might spot something that’s been missed, they’d said on the phone with him as they handed off his assignment. If he played his cards right, they said, he could pull these murders from unsolved to solved. Oh, and the commission is thinking these murders might involve some agents from the League of Villains.

It’s not a confirmed connection.

There’s nothing solid about it, besides the body mutilation and burned corpses. But both are known habits of two members of the League. They’re shadowy leads, more steeped in hearsay than fact. All the same, one is rumored to have a fascination with blood, and the other, has a proclivity for using a bright, blue flame. It’s a hot heat, perfect for cremation and these bodies have all been practically, well, cremated.

“Have you met the other heroes that will be assigned to work with you?”

Hawks snaps out of his head and nods at the tall, balding police chief. “Amano and Matsuura? Yeah, we’re supposed to take a look at the first locations as soon as this...meeting...is concluded.” Hawks hopes the police chief can hear the air quotes he just put the word meeting in.

“Good, good. I saw your additions on the later cases. I really feel that we should look a little harder into those. One was a member of the city council. He was beloved by the city and-”

“If I’m looking for a pattern, there’s a higher probability that the killer was sloppier in the earlier cases. New habits and all. I’ll get to the councilman when I get to the councilman. Again, this string of murders started in the lowlands. While I realize that doesn’t get you the most publicity, and I hear a re-election is coming up for your position as chief of police this fall, I’m not going to pick at certain elements of this and leave others by the wayside.

You gotta’ problem with that, take it up the HPSC. But, listen, they’re a lot meaner than me and they’re not going to like that you’re obstructing my investigation. You asked the commission to send someone down, and, lucky you, you’ve gotten yourself stuck with me.”

Hawks flashes the police chief a bright grin, his teeth gleaming as his eyes crinkle to crescents. The man stammers for a moment, his face flushing under Hawks’ false joviality, then he tosses a bulky manilla folder on the desk.

“Why you...I heard you were an arrogant son of a...no, no.” The chief sputters, his teeth clenched, anger bared behind the grinding of his jaw. “You’re right, we’re so very grateful to the number three hero taking time out of his busy modeling schedule to lend us a hand with these murders.”

“Ooh, you saw that spread in the sports magazine? Nice use of color right? Loved that new set of watches I’m sponsoring.”

Fucking prick. Hawks is used to this kind of irate reaction, hell, it’s pretty expected now. He’d heard it so many times he has it memorized. Yeah, yeah, he’s twenty one, a kid who’s too big for his boots. He has no idea, no real world experience. Did you hear how he talked to me? The audacity.

Let this guy try to report his snarky attitude, it’s not going to get his low level wannabe bureaucratic ass anywhere.

“I’ll get my agency to send you a signed copy. I had no idea you were such a fan! Lemme grab these files, got some work to do. Catch you around, sir!” Hawks pantomimes a salute, a serious expression making his eyes narrow. Fuck this dude. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

Closing the door on the police chief’s mottled expression, he meanders down the stairs of the police precinct, his wings still arching and rustling his temper. You’d think this case didn’t matter to these buffoons. The sheer implication of Hawks’ presence should clue them in. The HPSC doesn’t do anything lightly. Nah, these killings could be related to the League. Plus, his background checks on the victims had revealed some startling discoveries.

All of them, down to the nineteen year old restaurant hostess, were involved in minor villain activities. Some had smuggled drugs, some laundered money on the side, one was a known broker. They kept climbing the ladder of severity. It was worrisome.

While the chances of the LOV’s involvement was low, the commission was still searching for their hideout. He’d caught wind of some of the activity revolving around that ongoing mission. He wasn’t assigned to it, but he liked to keep an ear to the ground.

Association with the LOV or not, these homicides kept bothering him. There’s something he’s not seeing. He dislikes the sensation. It makes him tense, ill at ease. Once he steps outside the police headquarters he launches himself into the sleet grey skies.

It looks like rain.

If he’s wanting to glean as much as he can from those early crime scenes, he better hurry. Hawks doesn’t like rain. It makes his feathers feel bogged down and dampened. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on evidence. Rain can whisk the little details away, slicking and drifting as it washes down to the vast sea. It can easily snag vital clues on its meandering path, erasing as it goes.

******

The first murder took place on the fourth floor of a shabby apartment. The victim lived in the 19th unit and was a 43 year old male. He was a well known loner. So, it was a shock to discover that he ran a pilfering ring. The ring wasn’t a small scale enterprise either. No, this went deep. It connected to three other islands and the Japanese mainland. There’s no way this guy was a simple recluse. If anything, he was nothing short of a criminal mastermind.

His body had been left in an odd position. It was likely staged, purposeful.

He was discovered by his landlord. Rent was due and it was unusual for him to be late with the payment. So, the landlord let himself into the 19th unit. It’s a small wonder no one reported the smell earlier. Apparently, it was putrid, acidic, gut churning. A mix of tarnished copper and old, rotten meat.

In all likelihood, he was murdered elsewhere and dragged back to the unit. Nothing in the room, besides his corpse, was scorched. The victim was splayed on his small bed, but the placement was strange. His feet were resting on his ashen pillow, shoes still on his feet. Meanwhile, his head was at the foot of his bed, pointing northward.

Hawks and one of the assigned heroes, a friendly guy named Amano, are going over the case file with two members of the forensic team. Apparently, one of the team members hadn’t been part of the original investigation clean up and bagging. As Hawks and Amano are sharing the crime scene photos, asking the forensic team questions, the taller of the two, gasps, clapping a hand over his lips.

Hawks tilts his head at the man’s reaction, his feathers automatically feeling for his pulse. It’s elevated and the guy appears to be truly bothered. It’s an upsetting picture, to be sure, but this is his job. He cleans up blood and guts for a living. Surely, he’s seen worse.

“You ok?” Hawks’ asks, his amber eyes shifting over the man’s face.

“F-fine. It’s just, well, look at him.”

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something?

“What about him?”

“Look at the direction his head’s facing.”

“Uh,” Hawks examines the position of the hazy sun that peeks through the rain clouds outside the window. “North?”

Now the other forensic team member gasps. What the hell? What does facing north have to do with anything? It’s a cardinal direction. What would they say if he was facing the West? Again, are these people deliberately trying to bog his investigation down?

“I don’t see what, uh, relevance that has.” Hawks tells the two, looking over to Amano. The hero doesn’t seem to be bothered by their outburst. He just shrugs at Hawks’ frank stare.

“It’s supposed to be bad luck, but yeah, there’s not-” Amano begins, finally placing some clarity on the forensic team's outburst of paranoia, but he’s interrupted by the taller, jumpier man.

“Not just that. You collect iron in your blood if you sleep facing north. It brings death.”

The guy said death like it might summon the fearsome spector down on them at any moment. Amano coughs, his hand covering a badly concealed smile. “Yeah, sure. Facing north is bad luck, and, I guess it can bring death, too. Learn something new everyday...”

“Worked pretty well in this guys case,” Hawks muses, arching an eyebrow at the jittery forensic team. “You guys see anything else? Something a little more, I don’t know, pertinent?”

They don’t get much further with that crime scene.

Amano tags along for Hawks’ review of the other two cases. His agency runs out of this area and he was one of the first responders. He’s not got a lot of extra information, but he knows the people and they know him. It takes the edge off, lets the locals open up a little more.

The next case is in a home. Well, home feels generous, it’s more like a shack. Apparently, the victim liked to collect cat figurines. Like, really, really liked to collect cat figurines. There’s over sixty of them, they’re scattered around the place, tucked into nooks and crannies. It feels like a thousand little eyes are watching the two heroes as they canvas the space. It’s creepy. Hawks dislikes the sensation. His feathers keep lifting, feeling, spreading out.

The woman had been found at her kitchen table. She was propped into a chair, sitting, like nothing in the world, save her crisp remains, was amiss. The only way you could achieve a staging of that caliber was to wait for the body to enter rigor mortis.

That takes time.

Full rigor sets in around 5 to 12 hours after death has occured. Whomever did this must have had time to spare. And they weren’t worried about being caught during that time. No, they were too busy planning out the dramatic effect of their crimes.

Once again, he feels like he’s missing something.

One body was left pushing a garden cart. Literally, the man was found, early in the morning with his hands tied to a wheelbarrow. He was posed mid task, his arm lifted, reaching for someone, or something. Trouble was, the guy didn’t work as a gardener. No, he was a low level broker. Someone darting under the criminal radar. He’d eluded the police and heroes for months. Looks like his luck ran out.

The eighth body, the congressman, was discovered at a popular wharf. This crime scene is still in the process of being cleaned up, so there’s a flurry of people bustling around. Amano, and the other hero, Matsuura, who’s also been assigned to Hawks’ investigation, are talking with witnesses, gathering information and scheduling interviews. This kind of hero work is never ending. Hawks is grateful they’re willing to take on the grunt work.

As Hawks is kneeling, peering over the ledge of the pier, looking down on the blackened wood and debris, a loud cawing breaks out. It echoes on the wind, coiling and lifting. It’s a funny sound. Like it’s far away and dulled. It makes Hawks’ wings fan out, overstimulated and brittle. The heroes and crime scene investigators debate on the origin of the noise. It doesn’t help that there’s no bird that’s wheeling above them. No, the skies are dark and empty, with a light misting of rain starting to drip onto the lashing sea.

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

“It’s creepy. There’s nothing even flying around. But, it sounds so close.”

“I think it’s a seabird. It’s gotta be, sometimes they fly out here looking for fish.”

“I’ve never heard a seagull sound like that.”

“There are other birds besides seagulls, idiot. It could be a pelican-”

“It’s a crow,” Hawks’ supplies, standing and turning back to the clutch of people who are quickly gathering up their supplies, doing their best to get the important pieces of evidence protected from the rain.

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

“No...I think it’s illness, not death.”

Hawks’ walks to Amano and Matsuura, he tells them he’ll meet them back at the police headquarters. He needs to start his interviews if he wants to even have a prayer of snagging a bite to eat. He’s been subsisting off coffee since he flew in and his stomach is rumbling, loudly.

The investigators are still debating the meaning of the crow caws when he takes off. His wings beat powerfully beside his head and he lifts above the grey storm clouds, coasting high, past the skyline.

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Things feel off in every crime scene. Were their belongings really left that way? Or, have the details been staged? Plus, the murders keep escalating. The particulars are spreading out and deepening as they interweave. The major connecting thread is still the state of the bodies, but even that is starting to feel vague. Hawks shudders a bit of excess moisture from the tips of his wings. Fingers crossed, some of these witnesses and relatives of the victims will have a little more substance for him to chew on.

******

Oh, they have something alright.

It’s more hushed rumors and strange folk tales. God, the sheer frightened gullibility of these islanders is wild. The whole place feels so backwoodsey, lost in a bygone era. There’s always a prayer or blessing that needs to be uttered. Or, some supernatural logic that he needs to look into. Did you consider the devil, Hawks? He hides in the details, you know?

It’s fucking weird.

Hawks is treading in unfamiliar waters with this tripe. He didn’t grow up with any of this. The HPSC certainly hadn't offered him a course on Japanese islander folk traditions during his childhood. Still, these people, for the most part, seem well off, educated, cultured even. Some aren’t even from this island. But, they seem to be infected with the same disease: ghosts, oni spirits, and bad omens. It’s a whirling circle of nonsense and Hawks’ wants off this ride.

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

“Ma’m, that’s not possible. The coroner noted that rigor mortis had set in by 2 am”

“She sounded faint. It was like she was underwater, but it was her. She screamed at me.”

“She screamed at you?”

“Yeah, it was this low scream. Kinda, like a gasp? Like she couldn’t breathe. It kept getting louder and louder and louder. It hurt my ears. They felt like they were ringing, pounding. Then, the line just went dead. I can still hear it, that scream. Every time I close my eyes, or whenever I least...I-I can still hear her.”

“Do you have your phone records?”

Hawks is trying to make sense of it all, but it’s like they’re talking to each other before they come into the interview room, telling each new interviewee to up the ante.

See if you can spook the number three hero. Go on, it’ll be fun.

There’s a slew of strange occurrences. Disembodied voices, knocking on windows, doors opening on their own, quiet voids of cold that they step into. Ghosts keep popping up.

Then, there’s the oni spirits. They have red faces and they lean in close, their fangs reaching, gnashing, grinding. One woman, who was married to one of the victims, burst into tears, her terrified sobbing turning into a frantic wail.

She had seen an ogre in her back garden. It was pushing a cart and the cart was on fire. Hawks’ checked his notes as he patted the woman’s back, trying to help her move through a few breathing exercises. One of the victims was found propped, pushing a wheelbarrow, could it be…

No. It’s another dead end.

This woman didn’t know that dead man, the one who was pushing the cart. She didn’t even live on the same side of town. Ugh, this is endless. It might be easier if he did apply these delusions to his investigation. At least that way he’ll feel sane.

Some of the victims had been acting suspicious, paranoid, on edge before their deaths. One of them had gotten a phone call in the middle of the night and ran off. The next day she was found dead in her home, burnt and drifting into ash.

“So, she got the call and just ran out the door?”

“Yes. But, she let it ring four times.”

“You said that already. I’m not sure-”

“She picked it up after the fourth ring.” The aunt of the victim is looking at Hawks expectantly, her blue eyes wide, starting.

“I don’t-”

“You know what that means...don’t you?”

“The hidden significance of picking up a phone on the fourth ring? No, no I don’t.”

They never fully expand on their weird theories. They’re normal comments to them. He debates looking up the meaning of the number four on his phone, but he tamps down the urge. It doesn’t pertain to the case. It’s useless drivel, a waste of time.

An adult man shows him this ugly, ugly drawing of a cat. It’s pulling a flaming cart. Hawks doesn’t even want to touch the paper. The man keeps pointing back at it as he goes over his neighbor’s timeline.

This particular witness is connected to the city councilman. The one that was oh, so important to the police chief. It’s a high profile case and it’s being taken seriously. Yet, here’s this supposedly credible witness, flashing a childish scrawl up to his nose, asking him to look for the phenomena, like it’s a normal request to ask the number three hero to look for nonexistent demons.

‘There’s gotta be more to this’, he tells Hawks, his voice broken, fervid. ‘Something, something has to be there, after all, the councilman was murdered for a reason’.

The man with the drawing is right about that, at least.

These are not random crimes. The MO is too similar. Every single victim was involved in some sort of villainous activity. Yeah, the guys correct on that one sane theory of his: ‘There’s gotta be something there’. But, whatever it is, it’s not this cat thing.

Hawks calls a halt to their interview and glumly munches on his cold chicken sandwich as he waits for the next witness to be called in. His head is pounding and he’s praying for some new development to fall into his lap, at least that way he can conclude things and get the hell off this island.

******

The 9th victim is an outlier.

He’s high up in social circles and he was a popular man. He’s also been accused of money laundering, tax evasion and fraud. He was acquitted on all charges, but his past never did stop nipping at his heels. However, that’s not what makes him an outlier.

No, that’s reserved for the state of his body.

Most of the victims have been burned to a crisp, leaving nothing behind, save bone and gristle. You can still see this guy's face and defining features. He’s a little charred, but it’s almost like the flames stopped right before they got past his chin.

They transport his body to the morgue and Hawks finishes the combing of the crime scene, setting up a new batch of interview times and creating witness reports. He leaves just as the sun is dipping under the horizon.

******

It’s late now, and the cool sea breeze blows in through his open hotel windows, soothing across his crimson plumage. It’s his first evening off in over a week. He’s still working though, typing his reports into his laptop.

He’s forgone his usual coffee this evening. He wants to try and see if he can catch a full eight hours tonight. God, what a fucking delicious treat that would be. Eight hours? That’s the real ghost here.

He shuts off his laptop and flops himself across his bed, his wings tucking into his side, burrowing his shoulders into their reassuring warmth.

He slips into the lull between realities, his mind whirring, the case resting heavily against the forefront of his thoughts. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he can’t distinguish between dream and actuality as he drifts off.

There’s something there.

It keeps to the edge of his vision, a dark shadow that leeches the color from whatever it touches. He can feel it watching him. It shifts quickly when he cocks his head to get a better look, sliding across the blank expanse like quicksilver, fluid and slick.

He looks away from the edges of his dreamscape and turns. He blinks in surprise. He’s at one of the crime scenes. It’s the one with the man in the wheelbarrow. There’s a crowd pressing around him and that dark figure is blotted toward the back, lurking, watching. The people around him murmur and whisper, too soft to hear. They don’t seem to notice him. They also don’t appear to have faces. They’re just blank voids, with soft notches where eyes, noses, and mouths should be. Unthinking, Hawks reaches for one of them and his hand slips through the air, weightless and heavy in the same motion.

When he blinks again he’s in that lady’s shack, the one with all the cat figurines. That wraith is sitting at her kitchen table. It’s not moving and he doesn’t feel particularly threatened by its proximity. Still, he dislikes this whole thing. If he can touch it, maybe he’ll wake up.

He’s stepping forward when he hears a soft mewl. There’s a black cat on a shelf. It’s tiny and lithe. It jumps in front of him, a low purr rumbling from its chest. It looks up at him, orange eyes fastening on his amber ones. Odd, he thinks, that woman only had figures. No living cats were evident in the house.

The cat chirps four times. It’s a light, high pitched sound that makes his ears ache. It almost sounds like a phone. The cat lifts its tail and turns, padding soundlessly into the next room. Intrigued, Hawks follows.

Now, he’s walking down a street. The cat is still in front of him, weaving in and out. That purr of it is loud and sharp as it vibrates around his ears. He keeps trying to get the feline’s attention. He pspsp’s at the dark cat, clicking his tongue, but it doesn’t respond. Hawks is distracted, not paying any mind to his surroundings, wholly focused on the feline.

The voice startles him.

It’s rasping and deep and it’s calling his name. Not his hero name, no, it’s saying his real name, over and over.

KEIGO TAKAMI.

Keigo Takami, he thinks, stumbling over words that make him, him. It sounds strange now, foreign. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long time. How did…

The voice is coming from behind him now. He whirls around and is face to face with that man. The 9th victim, the one whose face you could still see. He’s charred and battered, and blood is dripping in long rivulets from his gaping skin, pooling onto the ashen sidewalk.

His eyes are wide, searching but not seeing. The pupil and iris are both milky white, rolling around in the cavities of his sockets. Then, his mouth pops open. It’s horrifically wide, like it’s caught in a scream. His teeth are crumbling before Hawks’ eyes, black pearls that slide from the man’s lips and clatter around his feet.

Hawks is stunned, unsure, but, fuck, he can’t move. He tries to flap his wings, knowing that they’ll tug him away from this horror that’s in front of him. Except, there’s no whoosh of air, no lift. There’s nothing. What? How...

His hands bat at the emptiness along his back. Where are they? What is this? His fingertips press along his shoulders, searching, desperate. His quirk, it’s...it’s just gone. He’s frantic now and that makes him clumsy. His feet tangle under him and he falls. Grounded, his legs instinctively begin to push away from the shell of a man in front of him.

The figure moves with him. Hawks keeps scrabbling away, but the man is even closer now and his bare feet are disintegrating with each shuffling pad forward. Still, he keeps on. Hawks tries to move again, tries to shift, but he’s been cast in stone. He can’t look away...he can’t…

The man is almost upon him now. His fingers are crumbling, the ash they create is making him choke. He can’t breath, he’s wheezing, unable to pull oxygen through his trembling lips. Hawks’ lungs are burning...

Then, Hawks’ wakes up.

He’s sweating. His skin feels hot and his wings are flared. The feathers are quivering, searching. They bring him back bits and pieces. There’s someone sobbing two rooms over, someone is sleeping below him, their breath warm, he can almost feel it, pushing in and out, in and out. There’s a phone ringing. How many rings? What if it’s four...

Stop, stop.

Hawks tucks his wings back, ignoring the sounds, the sensations. The plumage wraps around him and he ducks his head into the darkness that they blanket him in. He’s comforted by the reassuring, solid presence of his quirk. He thought he’d lost it. His shoulders still hurt from his flailing motions. What is going on? He’s never had a dream like that. It felt so...so real.

No. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He doesn't believe in this stuff. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He tries to lay back down.

He’s cooled off some, but his wings keep flapping, he’s stopped trying to fight them. His quirk is going into overdrive. This hasn’t happened to him in years, not since he was a kid. He tosses his pillow over his head, trying to stifle out the noise his quirk keeps drowning him in. He’s tired and overstimulated. Each breath stings and he tries to count, to walk through the steps that have been with him since childhood. Just be still, Hawks. It doesn’t matter.

The sun is peeking over the horizon when he finally dozes off, his head heavy, fogged with exhaustion.

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning.

He practically inhales the dark liquid, hoping it will let him evade the haze of tiredness that thrums through his veins. It’s a slow day, thank God. There’s nothing of note that occurred the night before. Everything is pacing along its planned trajectory. There are no new bodies and the last interviews go by without any mention of spirits or the paranormal.

Matsuura offers to take him for some lunch. Hawks, always eager to expand his palette, eagerly agrees and the two men head into the city. It’s a weekend, so the streets are crowded. People recognize Hawks and he chats with them, grateful for the welling of normalcy that the interactions bring. He’s signing an autograph when he catches sight of movement in a darkened alleyway.

It’s not a particularly noticeable shift, but something about it feels strange. Hawks hands the freshly signed soccer ball back to the gang of kids around him and tilts his head toward the motion. He blinks. What the fuck? That’s not possible.

It’s the man from his dream. He’s walking, steps heavy, sluggish and he’s moving into the alley. The 9th victim? But, but how? What?

His wings react to his agitation and he hones in on the spot, reaching, snatching at anything he can sense. His fierce wings never let him down. They’re versatile, practiced and perfected. Feathers detach and shimmer into the midday sun, ducking around corners and onto rooftops, feeling.

There’s nothing.

No heartbeat, no footsteps, no voices. Hawks’ eyes had slipped closed as he felt for the man and he snaps them open again, his avian pupils dilating, constricting to a fine point. He turns to Matsuura and tells the hero he’s going to check something out. His wings lift before Matsuura can answer and he flaps into the air, the sea breeze assisting his ascension.

The rooftops are empty and Hawks scans the streets below, his wings rustling as he pulls himself along. Maybe it was a trick of his mind? Did he really see that guy? That’s a stupid question, how could he have? That man is dead. It’s gotta be his tired psyche. He didn’t sleep well, plus this case has been on his brain so much that he’s even dreaming about it.

He lands on a nearby roof, his boots hitting the tiles roughly. Hawks closes his eyes again, sending a few more feathers out. The man, if he is real, will take this path if he is using the alleyway as an escape. There are no other routes available to him.

He’s still attuned to his scattered feathers when he hears the cat hiss at him. His eyes open and he sees the animal. It’s a black cat.

It’s across the street, lingering in an open window, its back arched and its fur standing on end. Hawks narrows his eyes at the aggressive display. There are way too many cats on this island.

As he and the cat continue to engage in their silent staring contest, he hears a scritching sound coming from the street below. Hawks follows the noise, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. A child is playing below. She is sketching something into the concrete with bits of multicolored chalk.

It looks like...huh?

It looks like some kind of cart, but, why...why is it on fire? She is busy tracing the licking flames, a yellow piece of chalk clutched in her small fist. She’s humming a mindless song. It sounds like some kind of dirge. It’s soft and melancholic, following a minor tune. A shiver creeps up Hawks’ spine, but he ignores the pebbling of his skin, shaking his head.

Curious, Hawks wheels down, tapping along the street. He keeps a little ways away from the girl, he’s not wanting to startle her. His long fingers reach behind him, into his utility pocket that sits on his belt. He tugs out a small sticker sheet. He always keeps little trinkets in his pockets. It takes real effort to put people at ease and Hawks prides himself on his ability to steadfastly maintain that part of his image. He kneels on his haunches, dropping himself to a friendlier level before calling out to the little girl.

“Hey! That’s a pretty picture.” His voice is all light and honey and he has a bright smile on his face.

“Oh!” the little girl chirps, beaming her own grin back at him. “Thank you!”

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what a Kasha is. Can you tell me about the Kasha?”

“They come to take away bad people.” The little girl replies, going back to her sketch, perfecting her lines and colors.

“Oh! There’s a kitty in your drawing. Is the kitty a Kasha too?” Hawks asks, noticing the calico cat that’s attached to the handles on the front of the cart. It looks angry, vengeful. Strange for a kiddo to draw something so eerie.

“That’s the spirit of the nekomata, silly. Don’t you know anything?”

“Haha,” Hawks laughs, a genuine sound that makes him throw his head back, his hand bashfully scratching the back of his head. “Guess I don’t, huh? Do you like to draw...ghosts?”

“Not really. If I draw them they won’t-”

A distant voice is calling out a name. It’s female and coming from a house a few feet away, no doubt the girl’s mother or sister. The little girl calls back.

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

“Here,” Hawks begins, detaching a smaller feather and drifting the little set of stickers over to the girl’s chubby hands. “Thank you for answering my questions,” he smiles. She coos and snatches the sparkly sheet, the sunlight catches the glitter that adorns the stickers. He tickles her cheek with his detached feather and she laughs.

Her mother calls again and she starts to run off, her yellow shoes pounding on the street. Belatedly, she pauses before rounding the corner and bows low, a quick thank you slipping from her mouth. He waves back and smiles as she walks into her home, the door clicking behind her. Once he’s alone in the alleyway his grin drops and he stands, looking down at her drawing.

It’s so freaking odd. Sure, sure, these cases are in the news. But the drawing looks...familiar somehow.

Oh, that’s why.

That man he interviewed, the one connected to the congressmen, had drawn something similar. Even then, back in that dark interrogation room, the strange figures looked like something he’d seen before, but where?

That nagging feeling is back. It pulls at the back of his mind. What is going on?

Hawks pulls out a small notepad and replicates the girl’s drawing, noting the colors and positions of the nekomata. As he sketches, his wings arc above his head, lifting and lowering meditatively.

******

He comes back to the police precinct, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. As he walks toward the chief’s office he runs into Amano. He’s the elder of his two assigned heroes and a font of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. Maybe he’ll know something more about this doodle that keeps cropping up.

“Hey, Amano, you seen any weird drawings around town? Or, at the crime scenes maybe?”

“Weird? Like how?”

Hawks pulls out his notepad, flipping to the page with his sketch of the cat pushing the burning cart. Amano chortles, one gloved hand coming to cover his mirth.

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

“I’m not much of an artist, I'll give you that one. In my defense, it’s based on a kid's drawing, so cut me some slack here, man. She said it was supposed to be a kasha and a nekomata?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can kinda see that now. I know what those are. According to legend, kasha appear during rainstorms. They steal corpses out of their coffins. Some of the older folks say they collect the souls of the damned. You can’t get the souls back if the kasha get them, they’re taken to hell, or eaten, depending on what version of the story you’re listening to.

I mean, they’re all just old wives tales. We used to tell them on camping trips. They’re bedtime stories, something to scare kids into being good. Ooo, misbehave and you’ll get taken to hell.

Eh, that feels kinda strong when I say it outloud, hopefully people don’t tell their kids stuff like that. Anyway, it’s not real.” Amano pauses, his head tilting at Hawks’ serious expression. “Isn’t it a little early to be getting into ghost stories? It’s summertime. Besides...”

Hawks tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket, flicking through the crime scene photos as Amano elaborates on how ridiculous this ghoulish conversation is. Normally, Hawks would agree, but there’s got to be...oh...OH.

There it is.

His finger stills over the glass of his phone. It’s tiny, basically a scrawl, but it’s there. He flicks through some of the other photos, swiping through the different locations, searching. Ah-ha! Again, there’s that scrawl. This time, it’s almost cropped out of the photo. Still, there are two crime scenes with the scrawling of chalk.

It’s a tiny drawing, so tiny he looked right over it originally, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there, plain as day. It’s a drawing of a tiny cart with a cat pulling the handles, lugging the wheels forward.

Amano is still talking when Hawks looks back up. Hawks butts into his elaborations, not caring that he’s interrupting the man.

“Ok, so they take evil doers away? Spooky. Question for you. You got any theories on why it’s cropping up all over town?” Hawks lifts the phone to Amano’s face. Amano takes the device and examines the strange markings, his brow creases, but he hands Hawks his phone back with a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s just talk, man. People do all sorts of superstitious things around here. Don’t look too hard into it. You believe what you want to, I don’t know. If that makes sense. Like those old sayings: ‘Don’t clip your nails before bed’. ‘No whistling at night’. It’s just something to say.

Superstitions are weird like that. Kinda like why you don’t have a fourth floor in a hospital. The number four looks like the word for death when you write it out. It’s bad form. It’s asking for trouble. So, don’t put a fourth floor, and boom, no problems with death.”

Hawks hums at Amano’s explanation. Ok, that superstition about the fourth floor, yeah, that one he had heard about. Amano claps a hand on Hawks shoulder and tells him he’s going to call a few more witnesses in. Hawks nods distantly, his mind whirring, processing. Despite Amano’s assurances, something still feels off.

******

He’s got a night shift.

It’s only for one evening, so it shouldn't fuck up his sleep schedule too much. Hawks has already decided that he’s going to circle back to all of the crime scenes. He’s not used to being out of the loop, or being the one that people are looking at quizzically.

He’d shown the drawings to the head investigator and the man had given him a blank look before asking Hawks if he needed some time off from the case. If he’d been asked that question a few days later, Hawks might have taken him up on the offer.

It’s been five days since he had that dream, but he’s still seeing that man. He’s determined to haunt him, to flit on the side of Hawks’ vision, drifting around like a dead leaf in a breeze.

He saw him at a bus stop the other evening. His dark hair was plastered to his face, burnt skin sloughing off his shoulders. He looked like a walking horror and Hawks had brought himself to an abrupt stop, staring at the figure below. The bus pulled up to the stop seconds after, the sleek metal shielding the man from view. By the time Hawks lifted himself higher, the man was gone.

He saw him in windows, peering sightlessly out of the glass. He spied the man walking home from the train, trailing long streams of ash and smoke behind him. He never makes any sound. He’s not alive, so why would he? He had spoken to him in his dream, called his name, but after that? There was nothing.

The vacancy of his presence is what startles Hawks the most.

There’s nothing to feel, nothing to sense. It’s just this vast, blank, emptiness. For someone with a quirk like his, it’s deeply unsettling. Hawks’ life revolves around his ability to sense, to feel. The plight of the dead man makes his chest hurt with its loneliness and abject barrenness. Is that what it’s like to die? You drift into this void, alone? He doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Is this his routine? Is he trapped in an endless loop, playing out his final movements? How long does he have to participate in this charade? Is this some kind of purgatory for him?

Distracted by his thoughts, Hawks spots a different man down a dark street as he flies overhead. It looks like he’s pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. Wait. A wheelbarrow? He looks again, wheeling back through the night sky, but there’s no one there now. No, the street is desolate, not even the gleam of the moon can brighten the winding sidewalks.

Is this really a ghost? Do these visions even exist? Hawks has never given the topic of the paranormal much thought. It’s always been an outlier, untrue, and untested. A pseudoscience. Well, ghosts or not, whatever is going on, Hawks needs some rest.

The rest of the night passes uneventfully and Hawks collapses onto his bed, drifting to sleep as soon as his golden head hits the pillows.

******

After a goodnight’s sleep, it does get a little easier.

He feels like his mind has cleared, the cobwebs brushed to one side, for now. Despite the clarity, he’s still seeing something. The man hasn’t gone away. No, even the daylight sun isn’t able to banish him. He saw him in his hotel lobby this morning, waiting for an elevator. By the time Hawks zoomed over, he was gone, the only evidence of his presence is the rising numbers on the illuminated floor panel, clicking up, toward the 4th floor.

That night, while getting a late night coffee, Hawks, long since given up his avoidance of caffeine in the evenings, spies something a little more sinister. As he’s paying the friendly barista, he notices someone lugging something across the road. It looks like it’s heavy, dragging against the street. They’re struggling to hoist it and it’s looking more and more like a body to Hawks’ frazzled nerves. He can’t be sure if it’s the specter that’s been lurking after him, but he’s not taking any chances. Again, Hawks is fast, but it’s not his speed that’s letting him down here.

Each and every time, there’s just nothing there.

Is he freaking haunted now? Is that a thing? That crazy dream hasn’t returned, so that’s one, fleeting, plus. Wait. Does thinking about the paranormal bring it into existence? Is that how ghosts work? Ugh, if he’s going to be plagued, he might as well read up on this shit. What the fuck is going on? Is it the town? Is it the pressure of this case? Is it him?

As he takes himself, and his coffee, up to his hotel room, he ponders the strange predicament he’s landed himself in. He can’t fit all the pieces together. It’s too strange, too abnormal. He wants to lay down, try to get a little sleep. But, a hero's work is never done. He’s got another report to type up and another set of interviews to schedule.

As he sits at the small desk that faces the window, he hears a strange cawing. It sounds close, almost like it’s right outside the glass. It’s not the call of a seagull, no, it’s that crow again. But, crows aren’t indigenous to the island. He’d looked them up after that discussion on the wharf. No crows have been spotted on the island in over 50 years. The last known specimen was an old bird, living in the Miyako zoo. It died over 3 years ago.

Hawks pulls himself to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floor. He opens the window and pokes his head outside. He can smell the salty aroma of the sea. It tickles his nose and makes him take a big inhale of air, filling his lungs with the crisp aroma. The crow can still be heard, shrieking into the night. There’s a soft, familiar, beating of wings, too. He cranes his head, scanning the blackness, his wings are lifted as well, but there’s no bird. Per usual, there’s no movement, and no creature is flapping its way into the night sky.

He closes the window and the cawing echoes to the other side of the room before fading away. Annoyed, he takes a sip of his coffee. Hopefully that’s the last he’ll hear of it. He’s got enough ghosts fucking with him, thank you very much, he’s not wanting to add a disembodied crow to the role call.

******

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol.

The murder cases have stagnated again. While this, on the whole, is good news, simply because there are no new bodies, he still can’t get that damned drawing off his mind. It feels like things are slipping away from him, pulling out with the tide and into the vast realm of the dreaded: unsolved cold case.

He’s frustrated, no, he’s not frustrated, he’s pissed.

He feels like he’s letting the whole town down. He’d been called out here to do a job, but what good has he really been? Sure, the townsfolk are weird, the police chief is an ass and the lead detective pretty much has Hawks written off as a conspiracy theorist nut, but he was sent here to do a job. He’s good at sniffing things out. He’s good at being a hero. He’s not good at waiting, and that’s all this case has turned into, one long stint of stagnation and thumb twiddling.

Hawks glides across the bright sky, the sun reflecting warmly on his ruby red feathers. His eyes and wings are alert, feeling for any disturbances. He’s rounding onto the main street when he sees him.

It’s a living, breathing man. Hawks can feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding against the man’s breastbone. Only problem is, he shouldn’t be in the realm of the living.

The 9th victim ducks into a large bank, his familiar dark hair gleaming in the sun.

Hawks maneuvers to land immediately, his wings tucking against his back and dropping him to the earth at an alarming speed. He startles the small huddle of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but he’s too intent on catching his quarry to smooth any ruffled feathers. He races up the steps of the bank, one broad, gloved hand yanking the glass door open.

There he is. He’s talking with someone. Hawks can almost hear what he’s saying, he just needs to get closer…

“Sir? Can I help you?”

It’s a bank employee. He’s wearing a crisp blue suit and his eyes are wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Hawks pauses at his question, then slides past him, but it looks like it was just enough time for the 9th victim to evade him. He’s walking now, disappearing from view, stepping down a back hallway. It looks like he’s following someone…

Hawks turns back to the bank employee, his wings vibrating with annoyance and impatience. “I need to talk with that man, he’s wanted in a murder investigation. My name is Hawks, my hero number is-”

“Oh, I know who you are. O-of course, please, do what you need to d-”

The bank employee’s voice fades as Hawks lifts himself, pulling over the heads of the people waiting in the lobby. A few feathers dash out, feeling, searching.

Where did he go?

Hawks reaches the hallway in record time, his wings folding as he paces over the marble flooring. There’s not much back here, but it does lead to a large, closed vault. Damn it all.

“Sir, sir, SIR! Can we help you? I am the bank manager. You’re not permitted to be back-”

“Sure, you can help me. I need access to this vault. There’s a man, you can check your security cameras, he just walked-”

“I do not have access to the vault. You will need to make a formal-”

“Whaddya’ mean, “you don’t have access”? Then find someone who does. Two men just...Damn it…”

Hawks phone is ringing, he tries to ignore it, but it persists, vibrating and chiming against his leg. The bank manager is bristling, his mustache quivering as he babbles on about warrants, and how heroes can’t act like cops. It doesn’t matter if Hawks is the number three, he can’t ignore protocol. He needs to come back with a warrant, or get out…

His phone’s ringtone continues to slice through the tense air and Hawks, after the 9th, exasperating, ring, lifts it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID: it’s the HPSC. Fuck. He accepts the call on a final, shrill note.

“Hawks, here.”

“You need to come back...there’s been...All Might...Kamino...attack…”

An intermittent static keeps breaking over the phone line. It’s a crackling sound, snapping and rustling, it makes his skin crawl. It almost sounds like someone is whispering something, just below the faint hissing. “What? The line is breaking up-” Hawks lifts the phone, ah, there’s no bars in here.

The bank manager is still carrying on, heedless of Hawks’ inattention. “And so, I am within my rights to ask you to-”

“I’m going to need you to wait here and don’t move. Yeah, yeah, sure thing buddy, I don’t have a warrant, but I can make things pretty rough for you if you don’t do as I say. You don’t want to be involved in this case, believe me. Now, do what I asked and stay here.”

Lifting his wings, he flies across the lobby again, swiping a quick text to the police chief, if they hurry they might be able to catch this un-dead, dead guy. He jets himself onto the sidewalk, scattering a gaggle of beach goers.

As he re-dials the HPSC’s number he hears it again. It’s the call of that crow. It startles him and he almost doesn’t lift the dialing phone to his ear. God, this has gotta stop. He scans the sky for any physical sign of the screeching bird. It’s close, cawing and shrieking into the wind. It’s different from the other calls it’s made. It sounds angry, desperate, trying to reach him...trying to tell him something...

The line picks up and a voice repeats the familiar greeting of the HPSC.

“HAWKS, here,” he says, vexed, eyes scanning, looking for the disembodied crow.

The person on the other end asks for him to hold, and a few seconds later the head of the HPSC is answering, her soft voice both grating and reassuring to Hawks.

“Hawks. You need to return to Tokyo, immediately. All Might has been attacked by All for One. There are developments that we cannot discuss over the phone. Leave whatever intel you’ve gathered for the Miyako police chief and get back here. This is a national emergency. We need all hands. I don’t need to tell you, but the implications of this are dire. Hero society as we know it will be forever changed. I repeat, drop whatever you’re doing and get back to headquarters.”

The line clicks and that static sound rises again. There’s a garbling, muttering sound that’s rising from the hiss. It’s saying his name. KeigoTakamiKeigoTakamiKeigoTakami.

Then, all is silent. The voice is gone, the cawing is gone. A deep feeling of dread washes over him. It makes his feathers flair, plumage spreading and flexing. All around him, voices are chatting, laughing, living. They have no idea, blissful in their ignorance. Everything is, no, nothing is ever going to be the same again. God, All Might. If he can’t recover, if he dies...

Hawks lowers the phone, his eyes wide. Suddenly, all these ghosts of his don’t feel so important now.

Notes: @hawksweek2020

Beta edited by @albinoburrito

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fleeting-emotions-madeforyou · 4 years

Text

5 years ago I seemed like your average college student. My drinking was out of hand, my impulsiveness was legendary and my ability to go downtown every night of the week was almost commendable.

5 years ago was also a memorable time for me. Using my impaired judgement I turned to the most extreme solution to my issues that I had previously tried covering with alcohol.

*trigger warning*

5 years ago I tried to kill myself. I was inebriated, drugged, and out of my mind with guilt and sorrow. I channeled all these feelings into rage toward myself. I chose to cut my legs to ribbons and took as many pills as I could. I left the apartment and sped around town drunk and bloody.

I woke up the next day a bloody mess, but I was alive. I ended up in the hospital with all my limbs wrapped in gauze looking like a failed sexy mummy because they looked a little like fishnets 😅

The nurses were incredibly kind as they wiped down my wounds not so gently with sterile rags and warm water every day. Multiple doctors mentioned that this was the most intense self harm they had ever seen and wanted me to know it is entirely possible and likely that I would get an infection from the sheer number of deep cuts that couldn't be sutured due to me using shaving razor blades and just essentially shaving off parts of my limbs.

Spoiler: no major infections and most of my scars healed really well. I have a few that are noticeable on my legs and arms, but I always joke that they were from me fighting a tiger or shark.

I am glad to be alive now. I am glad I am nowhere near that type of mindset at all anymore.

I experienced some blame and shame from people sometimes, but mostly everyone was supportive of my recovery. A family member told my girlfriend that my cuts weren't that bad and that it was all for attention. He was one of the only ones that saw me in the hospital after I was bandaged up. Hearing his negative opinion was a pretty big blow to me since he is very important in my life, but I talked it over with my friends and realized that he doesn't need to understand what I went through for it to have existed.

Unfortunately that family member is my brother and I have come to realize that he may never understand mental health as a legitimate concern even though he is notorious for his Depression and possible Bipolar tendencies.

My ex was the one who walked in on the scene and found me with all the blood and for a long while we blamed each other for all the hurt and anger and fear that existed in our relationship. Now we are good friends and can look back and understand that our mental health defined the incredible bad, but the good that existed between us didn't have to die. Again, thank you therapy and meds for that realization.

I don't really talk about my experience a lot, but if anyone out there is dealing with any issues and just need to talk, this is an open invitation. I don't promise to have answers, but I am always open to listening. You are important. The permanent solution of killing yourself is only solving a temporary problem. I implore you to seek help from anyone. I also ask that if someone comes up to you with any suicide ideations, that you listen and you hear them. After you hear them, you get them the help they need from someone who is trained in these matters. Doctors, Suicide Intervention Officers, The Suicide Hotline, and anyone else educated and trained to deal with this topic. There are so many resources. I volunteered to be a Suicide Intervention Officer in my Unit and I am happy to be a resource for anyone looking for someone to talk to.

You are important

It has been 5 years and I truly feel like a different person from that night. Suicidal thoughts are so incredibly rare and depression is managed well with a small cocktail of the occasional therapy if I feel like I am getting into a depression dip and some Zoloft to even out the chemicals in my brain causing the dip. I used to dread this time of year.

I forgot about it this year and forgot it was the Anniversary. Time heals, but I can never recommend therapy enough to help build real coping mechanisms. Please reach out if you ever need resources or if you need to talk to someone.

#me #my story #love #self love #suicide #depression #recovery #self harm

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breadknight-likes-things · 4 years

Text

Bread’s Game Journal 06/06/20: Wrath In The Frozen North: A Northrend Retrospective, Part 7: The Storm Peaks

The Storm Peaks are, frankly, one of the least memorable zones in Northrend for me, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad, nor does it mean I don’t have some fond memories of the place! Notably, unlike....every other expansion (Except Cataclysm) Wrath of The Lich King gave you flying before max level, because without it, there’s no way to actually get around these final two zones. Especially not The Storm Peaks, I don’t think you could navigate any part of this zone on foot if you tried!

I remember being really excited to get Cold Weather Flying (as the game called unlocking the ability of Flight in Northrend) because back then, Flight still seemed like this bold new ability to explore the world. It’s clear, though, that Blizzard has had something of a change of heart in recent years on the entire concept of flying mounts. By locking their use in new expansions behind damn near hundreds of hours of grinding, they’re implicitly saying they think putting the system in place to begin with was a mistake, which is such a far cry from the way The Storm Peaks is designed around their use!

Now if this was Elder Scrolls Oblivion, you could just diagonally walk up those cliff faces, but alas.

Here is a zone that’s built entirely around the concept of the flying mount. All high peaks, low valleys, and no easy way to move between any of them without simply flying above everything (we’d see this concept utilized similarly, but wildly different in tone, in Icecrown). The entire zone is also very noticeably based around The Titans and Ulduar. When I was originally playing Wrath, I didn’t expect Blizzard to lean as hard into the Old God part of the plot as they did, in fact at some points it almost seemed like the threat of Yogg-Saron was suddenly what the expansion pack was all about. Never mind that whole “Lich King” guy we’ve been worrying about this whole time! Blizzard really loves their “Actually, the bad guy was this old god the whole time!” twists don’t they? Y’sharjj, Yogg-Saron......N’Zoth...man we just keep going huh?

As far as my own, personal memories go for The Storm Peaks I’ll list them out, and you guys tell me the amount of hellish mental anguish they cause you: 1. Never finding the Time Lost Proto Drake. 2. 60% Flight Speed. 3. That’s it, just those two. That damn Proto Drake caused people to lose their minds! He was a rare spawn that would, ideally, patrol a set path, and anyone that killed him would then get him as a mount! Problem of course being, he was incredibly rare to even see to begin with, and you bet your ass you were not the only person looking for him. Making matter worse, this was firmly in the days of highly restrictive tagging. If someone got a single hit off on him before you did, they got all the credit, loot, even experience for the monster, no matter how much you did or didn’t help past that point. I can’t believe that tagging system lasted as long as it did!

I did not take this screenshot myself, because that would imply I EVER ACTUALLY SAW THIS GUY!

The other trauma this place loved to inflict on people was it’s sheer size and verticality, which, if you had a full speed flying mount, was nothing....but if you were still stuck with your old pal “60% flying speed”....yikes. I vividly remember navigating around this zone on the back of my standard speed flying mount was an actual nightmare. It took what felt like forever to do anything! I don’t know how much of this was just me not having Epic Flying in a time so many others had already acquired it, but I remember this being a huge deal for me. Thankfully, with the extreme affordability of flying speed increases in the game at this point, this will simply not be a problem for anyone ever again to begin with.

I know I didn’t talk a ton about the design, or the lore, of Storm Peaks but again, to be honest, it’s never been a very engaging zone to me. Among all the locations of Northrend it’s usually the one I just never really bother to go to anymore. I suppose it was more of a time and place zone, it was interesting in 2008 because it gave us some more insight into lore we knew little about. It was our first real experience with The Titans after all, but so far into the future as we are, where we’ve both directly met some of them and learned that Azeroth herself is a baby titan, it’s stingy dole-outs of lore just seems antiquated!

Bread’s Coveted “Best Town” Award: K3

Leave to the Goblins to show up in the most difficult place to navigate in the world, and set up another one of their weird little towns. Still, it’s such a respite from the environment that I’ve often wondered just how satisfying it must be to be inside that inn, knowing how dangerous and cold everything outside really is!

Random Screenshot Of The Day:

Kratos should be showing up to take part in some wholesale slaughter any minute here.

Stray Notes:

- Wrong zone, but I just remembered this one time I saw a pages long Gamefaqs thread of people angrily arguing whether a quest name in Borean Tundra was or wasn’t a Call of Duty reference because it had the phrase “We are leaving” in it. The internet is a nightmare.

- I didn’t even mention that Storm Peaks is the zone that finally solved the mystery of what happened to Muradin Bronzebeard after seemingly “dying” in Warcraft 3.....but also.....I’ll be honest, how much does anybody actually remember about Muradin Bronzebeard?

#video games #World of Warcraft #wow #world of warcraft shadowlands #world of warcraft wrath of the lich king #wotlk #wow wotlk #lich king #the storm peaks #pc gaming #Activision Blizzard #Blizzard #retrospective #world of warcraft retrospective #bread #breads game journal #bread's game journal

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allbeendonebefore · 5 years

Note

Hey hapo what's with the sea of blue in sask and Alberta during the election like did Sheer make that good of an impression on Sask voters??? NDP is option??

sea of blue you say? obviously we created our own blue sea since we’re not allowed access to tidewater JKJKJKJK

this is a really complicated question and I’m trying to think about how best to explain it. my feelings on the issue are very mixed because i feel like i have a foot or a hand in several camps like some convoluted twister game. it’s something that a lot of identity and emotion is tied up in for a lot of people and it’s rooted very firmly in inequalities that have existed for over a century and get expressed differently in different regions. It’s something that I grew up saturated in and I’ve done a lot of reading about (and of course there’s always more on my reading list) but I’ll try and highlight a few reasons that I’ve been musing about so as not to be too overwhelming.

it’s something that is really hard to explain to people from outside the province because we’re quick to be written off (sometimes rightfully so, others not) but it’s something that’s equally hard to explain to people inside the province. As I said it’s something we’re all saturated in, we are born into it or we grow up in it and it’s really hard to confront a lot of things surrounding it. And I definitely have my own biases and background and relation to this issue and I must stress that as furious as I am with people in large groups making dumb ass decisions, I can’t be angry at individuals because I get a lot of why this happens even though I find it personally misguided or ignorant at best and actively harmful, selfish, and self-sabotaging at worst. But when I explain this I hope it makes sense why for a lot of people it feels like the only option.

And my last preface is that I am speaking from an Alberta perspective, if my followers in Saskatchewan want to add on to this please feel free. I’m glossing over a lot here because I’m trying to keep this short and understandable… but when have I ever done that lol.

Yeah, it got long.

so why does the west go conservative. it’s not scheer, and if you remember harper you’ll remember personality is never high on our list of priorities. [insert gif of harper explaining how he too is a human who watches netflix here]

1. History

To sum up two hundred years: Alberta and Saskatchewan were never equal partners in confederation with other provinces. They were purchased and carved up by the Canadian government which then imposed the two party system on the provinces, which prior had consensus government which (i believe) was similar to how NWT and Nunavut continue to operate. They were not given the rights to their own resources until decades after joining confederation. They were given Liberal governments because the Liberals were and are considered the “natural” governing party of Canada, and while Saskatchewan has flopped between Liberal and Conservative governments like many eastern provinces, Alberta has always had a radical streak and has NEVER re-elected an unseated party in its history. And no, I don’t consider the UCP a continuation of the previous 4 decades of conservative rule, even though they imagine themselves to be the inheritors of that legacy.

Fast forward to the direct impacts: in the 70s, world events that severely impacted oil production caused Eastern Canada to absolutely panic and force Alberta and Saskatchewan (yet again) into providing discounts on their production to soften the blow in Ontario and Quebec of rising prices, forbidding them to sell for a profit to the United States. This included both oil products and potash, hugely lucrative products in AB and SK. It was a continuation of Eastern Canada imagining and treating the prairies as property, as chattel, where provinces like Quebec and BC would never be asked to undersell to benefit the rest of the country.

The current federal conservative party is an amalgamation of reactions to this situation and related ones: the Progressive party (which was a complete misnomer) originated in Manitoba, the Reform party emerged from what I understand as the “first wave” of western separatism, and even though Reform was defeated federally it is still a direct ancestor to Stephen Harper and by extension Andrew Scheer. Harper’s policies are the natural product of decades of conservative governments dating back to Preston and Earnest Manning’s Social Credit party in Alberta.

That said, people from both inside and outside the provinces completely misunderstand Harper’s (and Kenney’s) “Western-ness” or “Albertan-ness”. Both of them ran on western issues and appear to speak up for western interests, but those issues and interests only go as far as the CEOs of the oil companies are concerned, not the working class in the industry. Harper and Kenney actively undermined the equalization formula for the west and had the gall to campaign on striking a good deal for the west. Federal politicians do not have to ever strike a good deal for the west, they will ALWAYS prioritize voters in Ontario and Quebec so long as our voting system remains this way.

2. Identity

My next point in the long agonizing question of Why This is a sensitive one. In Alberta we have my parent’s generation who were voting age at the toppling of Social Credit by Lougheed’s Conservatives. For Alberta this was a monumental shift in taking no shit from Ottawa that people still look back on. Lougheed was a hero for demanding a fair price from Canada for Alberta, and he was incredibly concerned with managing the resource and the profits wisely. While conservative governments were natural and long standing in eastern Canada, this was the first time they had taken power in Alberta and they made a dramatic and revolutionary impression, which is not a thing that conservative governments are usually known to do.

My parent’s generation remembers this time of intense prosperity. My parent’s generation raised their children in this boom-bust cycle and my parent’s generation watched as Lougheed’s heritage fund was spent out from under us. I grew up under Ralph Klein’s government- intensely popular for a premier and who’s legacy was as powerful as Lougheed’s, but incredibly polarizing. He gave $300 to every man, woman and child in the province (except my fam because we had just moved back and didn’t have residency, lol) which was memorable if irresponsible. But it was men like Klein who had the charisma and the presence to make people really take pride in the industry, to worship the boom-bust, and to consider all problems solved. Klein did not give a shit about the part of Alberta I grew up in, and friends who lived in the far north of the province fared even worse. It’s absolutely no wonder that the Edmonton area consistently votes “against” the rest of the province when we were left isolated and broken during the bust of the 90s and ignored repeatedly in the mid to late 2000s.

I have a deep seated and extreme resentment for Ralph Klein’s government and it’s not because I missed out on my 300 Ralph Bucks or because I don’t have connections to the industry, it’s because I grew up with a deep seated fear that I wouldn’t be able to complete my education or that if I got sick something horrible would happen. I was legitimately terrified I would not be able to make it to secondary school because of the cuts his government made on rural schools, and for friends of mine who were not as lucky and well supported as I was, it was even worse. I won’t drag their personal stories onto the internet to make my point, but know

But the point of this all is that the people alive today who vote are people who remember this time of prosperity, of fighting Ottawa, and of relative ‘freedom’ from taxation and so on and so forth are constantly trying to hold onto that time. The kids in my generation who I went to school with did not have to graduate high school - my school had a 70% drop out rate because people would go straight to the patch or into a related industry. In Alberta, every industry is a related industry. There is not an aspect of living in Alberta that the patch doesn’t touch. This is hard to understand for people outside the province. It was actual culture shock to me to come to Ontario where funders of schools and businesses are families that date back to confederation rather than Enbridge or Suncor.

Moreover, the people who work in the patch do an incredibly difficult and dangerous job for incredible amounts of money and it’s no wonder they are so valourized. The people who work in the patch are more dependent on the companies than they are on the government. During the fire of 2016, it may have been the government providing evacuation stations, but it was the companies who got people out. Working class people feel seriously undervalued and are obviously seriously defensive about the industry for real, concrete reasons.

The past four decades have shaped generations of people in this way. This is not something easily reversed. Voting conservative is almost inextricable from Albertan identity and it’s impossible to explain concisely. We all grow up with the same arguments and talking points, we are all imbued with anger and defensive remarks from birth, and to people outside the province our arguments can sound rehearsed to the point of sounding cult-like. Stop Using Plastic If You Don’t Like It. Stop Driving and Flying. Stop Importing from Dictatorships. Stop Being a Hypocrite. They are easy, simple mantras to absolve anyone related to the industry (which is everyone) of any guilt because they don’t have to be a hypocrite if they just embrace the reality. There is no room for any critical thought in this identity, there is no room for discussion, there is nothing beyond Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and Don’t Ever Criticize What Keeps Everything Running. It’s normal and natural to feel upset when people who don’t grow up with this line of thinking find it strange.

3. Alienation

So why doesn’t our valourization of the working class translate directly into NDP votes? Why does Rachel Notley become vilified for speaking and acting as Peter Lougheed did in the 1970s? Why do we continue voting conservative and say thank you when they betray us and kick us in the balls every single time? Why do we cover up our oh-so-shameful history of birthing the CCF/NDP out of the desperation and destitution of the Great Depression?

As I’ve been saying it’s complicated, but it’s also really simple. No federal party ever speaks to us. Not a single one. The conservatives barely have to because they know our identity as conservative dates back to before a time when we even had a provincial upper-case Conservative government ourselves. Scheer can parade up and down parliament hill with his appeals to free speech and his pro life base and his white supremacist dogwhistles all he likes because he knows keeping Alberta and Saskatchewan “happy” (read: angry) is easy. This is a man who said himself that he doesn’t need ‘indian votes’ to win and he certainly was far more worried about keeping Doug Ford out of the spotlight during his campaign and pissing off Ontario than he was about us, and premier kenney spent all his time in office campaigning for scheer instead of running the goddamn province, including preparing us for an emergency. And we lap it up while screaming bloody murder if rachel notley is not personally handing out waterbottles on the side of the highway of death.

No party, not even the conservatives, truly speaks to Albertans. We get hated on constantly by the rest of the country because we appear to be full of climate change deniers, but even the CEO of SUNCOR condemns deniers and politicians who cater to them. A lot of Albertans do acknowledge climate change is a reality despite how we’re painted, but because of the misunderstanding we feel directed at us constantly we tend to react badly and would rather hole up in our bunkers and let the rest of the country freeze in the dark - or melt in the sun as it were. No party speaks to working class rural people. No party makes the attempt to speak to people who are still only grappling with already outdated terminology like “global warming” while they are shoveling snow in August or September. No party is talking about actual grievances that working class people in Alberta face, such as long hours away from home and family or intense isolation that leads to addiction and death, that matter more to people than seemingly hypothetical change in climate that happens Elsewhere, not Here. Parties need to start coming up with concrete solutions that will make the inevitable transition more than just necessary but inclusive and beneficial. No one wants to feel like they have to start from scratch, no one wants to worry about what to do or how it will help. We aren’t used to thinking about solving problems, and we keep putting it on the next generation while we make it even harder for them.

The more we are criticized the more militaristic the vocabulary becomes, and that’s why we provincially voted for a war room and tax cuts while taking the money from school lunch programs. We rest on our laurels of having the lowest child poverty rate in the country while stealing money from children and blaming their parents for them going hungry. It’s abominable. And a lot of us realize it. And a lot of us still feel as if we have no choice. A lot of progressive voices get drowned out in stifling silence and any change feels like an existential threat. We got ourselves into this mess, but we all need to work together to get out of it. And that means listening to the strongest opposition we’ve had in nearly a half century. That means being grown ups and sitting at the table with the rest of the country. That means fighting the gut reaction to sputter out talking points you were taught to say because it meant protecting your family. That also means that we need to be listened to in return without smugness or patronizing attitudes from politicians or the rest of the country.

If you want us to switch to alternative energy, you all need to step up and start helping us do that. As long as we feel as if it’s being imposed on us we will struggle and we will fight, but it’s exactly why it’s so important to change the tone of the conversation. Listen to us. Help us. Make us feel like we’re part of the country. Give us the tools we need to be better. Encourage us to be leaders in the energy industry because we love being the best and thrive off healthy competition. Appeal to real, concrete issues for working class people with real concrete solutions.

yeah. uh. [places mic shakily back on the stand] peace im going to bed, fight me or whatever.

#yeah y yeah alberta #long gone saskatchewan #hapo replies #hapo reads canadian history #if you want citations i can and will dig them up so like don't test my patience #if i am misinformed i appreciate a gentle correction #but when i'm speaking of my own experience don't fuckin correct me #weh weh wehxit #neef-breeks #i reread this the next morning and im like wow i didnt touch on so much #but also if i add more i'll lose a thread of what i was saying because i go off on tangents #anyway i still stand by what i've written here even if i didnt embellish enough

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faemoria-arch · 5 years

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okay so a few days ago i received a mysterious anon asking ‘ how do i draw the characters ’ && given the context of what had been previously posted i assume this was asking for advice on how i draw tooth , jack , && pitch specifically . so this is . . . that . starting with toothiana . this isn’t like a step-by-step guide on how i draw her character so much a bunch of rambling of things i keep in mind for what i feel is right to communicate my portrayal of a character that was not fully designed by me . which means i don’t know if it would really help anybody else actually do anything , but maybe it’s interesting to consider when it comes to making choices for your own characters && stuff ? idk . w/e here we go .

okay so really basic fundamental strictly relevant to drawing her is that i treat her feathers like clothing which means i always draw her basic body shape first && then add them on . pushing gestures is extra important for characters who’s bodies are padded with other stuff because the clothing/feathers/fur/etc. will tame it down a lot , which can lead to them looking stiff if you don’t overcompensate to start with .

i hate that drawing WHAT A GOOD START . another small thing i try to keep in mind is that i actually draw her line of balance as though she is standing from her shoulders to her hips , && in most drawings only shift her legs to show that she is not , this is because at some point i realized that unless i’m trying to make her positioning seem awkward or draw attention to the fact that she is flying , it’s just really jarring to our eyes to see a humanoid exist upright in a position where they should not be able to balance . the movie does this too ( although it liked to position her more as though she’s sitting in the air really ) , which is why one of the more memorable shots in the movie is this :

because it’s really throwing in our face that tooth is not bound to the laws of gravity like we are && she is very accustomed to that . it’s impactful because she’s not constantly seen in poses like this . it is also not a coincidence that this is shown when she is reflecting on the supernatural reality of her work/life && playing the role of a mentor . my tooth in that scene would probably look more like this , because personality wise she’s obviously different in some ways . i studied && adapted a lot of the body language tooth displays in the movie for my portrayal ( why wouldn’t i , i still feel like it’s one of the most gorgeously animated movies in terms of its characters ever ) , but ofc it’s still not an exact match if i put my version in the same scenes .

movie tooth looks like she’s holding herself for comfort , almost like she’s cold . legs brought together , she’s trying to make herself smaller as a result of her uncertainty . my tooth is more aggressive in nature , so when she is anxious && talking about something that makes her uncomfortable she’s more likely to cross her arms over her chest which is still a subconsciously defensive gesture but a far more stand-offish . her legs are rarely poised in unison because she’s more than happy to take up more space . on the other hand :

my portrayal of tooth is also hyper-empathetic so talking to someone else about what’s hurting them ? she’ll subconsciously express her understanding of their hurt through something like placing a hand over her own heart . anyways my portrayal of tooth is still supposed to be petite but she’s also more curvy than the movie’s version in some areas ( something i decided to emphasize when i realized movie tooth is supposed to look like a young teen body-wise apparently ?? ) , so even though she usually ends up looking less bodacious in the end , this is pretty much her body shape if you took all those feathers off .

by default tooth is meant to be an exceptionally graceful looking character . i try to portray this in pretty much any situation of course , but one of my favorites is portraying it in the context of battle-readiness / battle-motions , because it gives a really stark && dramatic visual contrast to draw attention to it . a.k.a. her weapons .

i’m pushing curves as much as i can where i can . the motion through her body should seem as fluid && light as possible like she’s in the middle of a dance until it comes to the taut energy being held in her weapons . her blades are harsh angles in the midst of everything else - it’s something i over exaggerate all the time by making them literally nothing but straight lines . that is what spells out ‘ all her anger && tension is right here , in this sword . ’

( yeah don’t worry i’m gonna get to my thought process on drawing that asshole later ) it’s a useful norm on its own for another point of contrast to explore : when toothiana is in the mindset where her entire body is displayed as a weapon , more feral && wild . then it’s angles everywhere i can get away with it because the tension is everywhere , while still following the general ‘push && pull/squash && stretch’ rule of curves in drawing ofc .

in the movie tooth fights strictly with her wings ( && bunnymund’s boomarangs for a scene but she seems to use them like melee weapons ) so they do the same thing when she’s hostile at all . it’s just a visual storytelling shorthand for our society : whether its fangs , claws , bristling fur , a knife . sharp = dangerous . you want your character to look dangerous ? one way to do that is to make ‘em sharp !

lol butt . her crest of feathers on her head also flares out when she’s angry in the movie , which is something i used to have a good gif of their testing for but i can’t find it now . it’s another thing that gives the impression of being more sharp && jagged even just from a sheer consideration of silhouette , while also mixing in a more natural feel to the fact that she’s covered in feathers if she expresses herself through them .

last but not least , all that personal stylization really is in anything - drawing , writing , graphic design , whatever - is knowing the rules well enough to figure out how you can break them the way you like . i fudge things in how i draw toothiana all the time , but it’s always an intentional design choice , && i’m consistent about it , && that’s all it takes to make it go past the radar of suspended disbelief . for instance i never show toothiana’s ears with her feathers no matter how realistic it would be to see them . the golden ‘earring’ feathers are always covering them no matter what .

why ? because i tried to show her ears once && i didn’t like how it looked && that’s it that’s all the excuse you need . another thing i once realized was how difficult it was to position toothiana’s wings when she was sitting or laying down . so now when they’re at rest i act like they’re a cape && make them magically flexible . problem solved , thematic , && way more fun to draw .

&& that’s what matters in the end . your character should be fun to portray !

#» โลกีย์ ; Mem Draws #» โลกีย์ ; Out of Character #[ something that always happens to me when i watch through the ROTG movie as opposed to just #watching the clips without audio for reference purposes && stuff #is i am /never/ prepared for any of the voices #i think the voice acting is perfectly fine ofc ( 'cept i don't like isla as tooth because i'm bias but it's not like the delivery was bad )#but it's just never what i expect for ANY of them at all #&& watching the behind the scenes stuff where some of them are recording their lines is freaking surreal #oh right anyways uh #hope this is like #idk interesting to read at least i'll be making jack's next #&& then pitch #&& then i'll do like #a little combined thing for sandy north && bunnymund because i don't draw them enough to have that much established #but i can at least make note of what i think about when i /do/ draw them ]

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mabiviz-blog · 5 years

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DRRM Kwentuhan

As one of the prerequisites in our NSTP class, we were to visit our barangay hall to conduct an interview regarding the status of the community’s Disaster Risk Reduction and Management plans.

Community Background

I have lived in Bacoor for as far as I remember. More than half of my childhood was spent playing in the streets of Aniban II. Not only did I spend most of my time playing outside, but learning how to commute during junior high school only made it much more easier for me to explore and memorize the ins and outs of our community. Aniban II is a generally a peaceful community.

Community Situation

I was able to interview Mr. Christopher Rivera who is on his first term as a Sangguniang Barangay Member. With respect to his request, we did not take a picture together with him. Regardless, he was kind enough to indulge me in a “kwentuhan” session regarding the barangay’s risks and hazards.

Hazard Identification

Bacoor was a generally flood free city before the influx of people moving into the city in the late 1900s. The city used to be composed mainly of flat lands perfectly used for agriculture, with bodies of water like the Bacoor River and Zapote River proving to be crucial sources of water for irrigation.

picture taken at Prinza Dam

Now, the same bodies of water have also become one of the biggest hazards in the city. During rainy season, more commonly used bodies of waters like the Prinza Dam and Molino Dam overflew and caused flooding in some areas. Aside from this, the Zapote area is below sea level, making it prone to flooding during heavy rains. Typhoon Yolanda was one of the biggest storms to hit the Philippines to date. The typhoon did not only kill, but also destroyed thousands of homes. With the sheer size of the destruction caused by the calamity, Aniban 2 worked hand-in-hand with its surrounding barangays to help the community members to rise from the catastrophe.

Vulnerability, Elements, and People at Risk Assessment

picture taken at Aniban I, Bacoor

One of the most easily flooded places in Bacoor is Aniban 1, where a good 1-3 inches of flooding can easily accumulate as compared to other barangays like Aniban 2 and 4 who would not be experiencing any flooding at the same day. People living in the area have become accustomed to experiencing ankle-deep floods fluctuating throughout the months of July to December. There are also a some numbers of houses along Barangay Aniban II that are built on lower grounds, where residents often victims to minor flooding when there are continuous downpours of rain.

The Aniban Central School is one of the identifiable areas of barangay Aniban II vulnerable to flooding. Located right beside the barangay hall, it is observable how much lower the school grounds are compared to the main road right in front of it. This becomes one of the main reasons why students of said school are considered to be some of the people at risk during rainy season. Just this year, they finished constructing a four-storey building consisting of more than 10 rooms, which would also serve as a evacuation area during flooding.

During rainy seasons, water accumulates in the dark damp areas of the barangay. These places become possible breeding grounds for mosquitoes, which could lead to a dengue epidemic . Just recently, the officials visited the most common breeding areas for mosquitoes and were successful in their project of fumigating said areas. Residents also took part in the project by eliminating damp places around their homes where mosquitoes can lay their eggs.

Capacity and Disaster Management System

The barangay does not have specific operation plans but what they do have are basic equipment and manpower so they mostly rely on those two factors. They often plan the detailed execution of rescues and addressing calamities when the actual warning for said calamity comes, in order for them to be able to build a more specific action plan that would better address the certain situation they were to be faced with.

In preparation for calamities, they monitor the frequently flooded areas they divide into 2-3 groups who are each assigned an area to patrol. During patrol, they have with them their walky-talky and personal mobile phones to ensure that they stay within contact, most especially during times of emergencies. It is imperative that the barangay hall is stocked with the equipment needed for rescue missions, like first aid kits and security gear, especially during typhoon season.

Safest, Hazardous Places and Good Practices

One of the most hazardous places in the city was the Zapote River because bodies of water often pose the risk of overflowing, thus causing floods in the areas near it. This issue has been addressed through the construction of the Zapote River Drive. The construction project has not only addressed flooding issues in Zapote, but also in Las Piñas. Included in the project is a 300-meter wall with road, crossing Golden Acres & Moonwalk Phase 2, and Brgy. Talon 5, heading to Zapote River Drive. A 630-meter wall and road, built for retaining water, was also constructed It also includes a 630-meter retaining wall with road, including a bypassing the Zapote River, covering areas from Vatican Drive to Cicero Street at the BF Resort Village.

In the case of earthquakes, Aniban Central School and the Barangay Hall are the safest places in the barangay where residents can evacuate to. The school contains enough space to accommodate at least a few hundred people during evacuation. There are not many places in the barangay with open spaces clear of any hazardous buildings or objects for earthquakes because it mostly consists of residential houses and commercial establishments constructed relatively close to each other.

The barangay officials are generally aware of the ongoing issues in the community, which is why they recently conducted a project to fumigate the barangay to prevent a dengue epidemic. As I’ve previously mentioned, not only did they fumigate common areas susceptible to mosquito infestation, but they also encouraged the residents to partake in the project by eliminating possible breeding grounds on their own homes.

Issues of The Community

Aniban II, Bacoor can be observed as a generally resilient community. They have enough history that proves that their resources and manpower can ensure that the members are able to bounce back from the damage that some calamities bring to them. A major move towards eradicating community issues is to improve the barangay waste management and drainage system to lessen the chances of flooding. With the heavy influx of people passing through the community in daytime, it is quite difficult to maintain cleanliness for some parts of the barangay.

Correlation to the Disaster Situation of the Philippines

The Philippines, being a tropical country surrounded by multiple bodies of water, is vulnerable to storm surges and typhoons. Having said this, we must address the inefficient sewage and waste management systems existing in numerous cities all around the country. Such problems continue to make our cities more susceptible to flash floods with all the canals blocked up by our own garbage.

This problem cannot be solved single handedly. All barangays/communities from Bacoor must collaborate to come up with newer and more efficient ways of improving the city. Us, members of the community, must also join the initiative by observing discipline in waste management.

Realization

Despite having lived in this community for more than half of my life, I have come to know that there were still a lot of things I was not aware of regarding my surroundings. With this activity, I got to know more about the place I grew up in and the people within it-- the ins and outs of how the community functions together. It would be difficult for communities to live and thrive without collaboration because each barangay is interconnected with the other. I hope that this activity enlightens others as it has done to me. It is time that we all help improve our communities by taking on more active roles as Filipino citizens and living more sustainable lives.

Why and How should we address the issues of disasters in the Philippines?

As Filipino citizens, these disasters do not only destroy infrastructures, but also the lives and livelihoods of the people. It would not be possible for the government to address and solve this issue with unwilling and uncooperative citizens. We must all take part in becoming the solution to these disasters. We can always start becoming more conscious of our actions and how they affect the people and places surrounding us. It is evident that a lot of us lack discipline and responsibility in terms of waste management and self-awareness.

Philippines has bounced back from so many calamities already. It is good that our country is a resilient one, but would it not be much better if it were to become a prepared one? We would not need to use up tons of our resources having to repair properties destroyed by disasters if we built disaster-ready establishments. We would save so much more resources if so and tons of lives would not have to be deeply affected by disasters in our country.

What actions should I take to increase the capacities of my own community?

As I am no longer a minor and already capable of participating in voting, I could start with voting for community leaders who prove to be promising, responsible, and self-aware leaders and members of the community, as well. One of the things that I already do to help my community is trying to live a sustainable life by minimizing my consumption of plastic and other harmful products to our community’s environment. Aside from this, I can also take part in community projects like, barangay cleanups and tree planting events. As a student, I must also take part in school initiatives and seminars that would benefit my community, like taking NSTP courses to improve and broaden my knowledge on how to help my community. We, as citizens of our country, must be more self-aware of our actions as they affect not only us but our environment, which is why we must all do our best to improve ourselves and become more proactive in our own communities.

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camsthisky · 6 years

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i want to wake up (i hate this dream)

ao3 | ff.net

Warnings: Heavy references to depression. Hurt no comfort. Heavy angst.

Sometimes, Dick feels like a zombie. Like he’s the walking dead. Like nothing will ever be good again. Sometimes, he takes too much weight onto his shoulders, and he never puts it down. There’s a point where he crumbles to dust underneath all that weight, and there’s nothing for him to do but ride the breakdown and wait until he can bear the weight and start the whole process over again.

Most of the times, when he’s all but dust, he ends up at the manor. The living room couch, watching old black and white films with Bruce’s arm curled around him. The Cave, discussing a case with Bruce like Dick’s Robin again. Bruce’s bedroom, curled up underneath the covers with Bruce—and sometimes Tim or Cass—where the nightmares can never seem to touch him anymore.

In the end, though, it doesn’t really have to be the manor. As long as he’s with Bruce as he picks himself up and puts himself back together. As long as he can sit with Bruce (dadbrotherfriendfamily) and not have to do anything but be for a couple of hours.

Because Bruce will never ask. Dick knows that Bruce sees right through him, but Bruce will never find the words to ask about what happened. And maybe that’s because Bruce doesn’t really know how, but Dick doesn’t mind. Because all Dick needs is Bruce to be there.

That’s all Dick needs. Just Bruce by his side. After all, they’re Batman and Robin, and Batman and Robin never die, right?

Wrong. Wrong.

It figures that when Dick’s standing on the edge of a metaphorical cliff, Bruce up and dies on him.

“Are you quite alright, Master Dick?”

Dick blinks up at Alfred from the case file he’s looking over. Alfred’s frowning at him from across the room, and Damian’s absolutely nowhere to be seen. There’s two full plates of food on the table. Neither of them have been touched.

“Fine,” Dick says as he finally grabs his fork and eats, feeling as far from fine as can be. But Alfred has a lot on his shoulders, too. Maybe more than Dick does, and Dick doesn’t want to upset anything right now. He hasn’t quite crumbled yet, even though he’s just on the brink, so he’ll wait it up. Maybe he’ll call Clark or Wally. Maybe if he calls Tim again, Tim will finally pick up. Or maybe he’ll just ignore it until it goes away.

Never worked before—for him or Bruce, but it’s worth another shot, right?

The food is like cement in his mouth, but there’s nothing to be done about it. He eats mechanically. Scoop into mouth, chew, swallow, and start all over again. He gets about halfway through his meal before he can’t eat anymore, but that’s more than he thought he’d manage.

It’s more than Damian ate. He’ll have to address that soon, too. Another thing on his growing how in the hell did Bruce handle this list.

“Thanks for the food, Alfie,” Dick makes sure to say as he excuses himself for the table and heads for the Cave, where Damian is sure to be tinkering with something.

It’s time for patrol, and he hopes that this time won’t be a complete disaster.

He’s wrong, of course. Because Dick is always wrong nowadays. There’s nothing he gets right when it comes to filling Bruce’s footsteps, and training a new Robin seems to be failure number one. Right on top of his list.

At least he managed to get a protein bar in Damian before they left. That’s something, right?

Still, with Damian still refusing to listen to a word Dick says, Dick’s having a hard time not crying out of sheer frustration right now, so all he says when they get out of the batmobile is, “Go to your room, please. We’re done for tonight.”

Damian sneers—the little brat, but he’s growing on Dick, and Dick can’t help but feel something. It’s only been a few weeks but already Dick’s famous tempering is being tamped down by this ridiculous fondness that just makes him fond and terrified and sad all at the same time, and he’s not sure he even understands how he’s feeling.

That topped with all the other crap he’s got to deal with, it’s honestly surprisingly that Dick hasn’t already broken down into tears.

(At night, alone in his bed, doesn’t count. Not really.)

But Damian goes without a word to him or Alfred, and Dick doesn’t know how to handle anything right now, so he does what he does best: work.

Slumping into the chair in front of the computer, Dick pulls up some files for the most recent case and starts going over them. The case needs solving, and quick. Before there’s another murder on Dick’s hands that he can’t handle. And because he doesn’t have time in the day, it has to be looked over now.

“It’s almost three in the morning, Master Dick,” comes Alfred’s voice from behind him. There’s an uncharacteristic sadness to it that has Dick turning towards the butler to shoot him a small, sad smile. Alfred looks troubled, though, when he continues, “Bed may be the best option now. You have that meeting in only a few hours.”

“I’ll go to bed soon,” Dick promises, facing the computer soon. “Just give me an hour or so. I need to make sure that I have all the details memorized.”

Alfred sighs, but he doesn’t protest anymore, and for that Dick’s grateful. And as promised, Dick goes to bed at the time he said he would, except—

Dick wakes up shaking. He doesn’t scream or yell, but his heart is about to beat straight out of his chest, and he’s soaked in sweat. His hands won’t stop trembling, and he doesn’t dare get to his feet, for fear that he’ll only collapse to the floor and be unable to move.

In order to distract himself, Dick fumbles for his phone and starts scrolling through the case information he’d sent to himself. He scrolls and scrolls and scrolls, until it hits seven am, and he’s running on two hours of sleep. But he’s worked on less before, and he can do it again.

Eventually, he knows he’s going to crash. He’s dangerously close. But there’s nowhere to turn. No way to relieve this building pressure. The weights getting to be too much, but there’s no one to help him share it.

He feels like he’s on his own. Without Bruce here, though, it might even be true. He might actually be alone.

Two hours of sleep doesn’t take him very far, and before Dick knows it, it’s six in the evening, he’s been awake for over twelve hours, and he’s pretty sure he’s downed more coffee in a day than Tim has in his entire life. There’s a buzzing under his skin, and a thumping in his brain, and Dick can’t focus on the words in front of him anymore. He needs to get back home, but he doesn’t think he could possibly drive.

He does anyways, skilled and careful enough that nothing happens, but he probably shouldn’t do it again.

By the time he gets home—home. It’s not really home anymore, is it? Home has always been defined as family, ever since he was a little boy traveling from place to place. There’s never been a house he’s called home before the manor, just the people around him. His family. And now his family is gone. Bruce and Tim and Jason aren’t here. It’s only him and Alfred and Damian, and Dick’s never around the two of them enough to say that he’s home.

But when he gets home, he’s exhausted. His thoughts are all over the place, and there’s this distinct feeling that if one more thing happens that he can’t deal with right away, he’s going to burst into tears.

Alfred takes one look at Dick and his face falls.

“I’m not going out tonight,” Dick whispers as he slumps into the couch of the living room, curling in on himself and burying his head in his knees. He feels Alfred’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m exhausted, Alf. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Alfred doesn’t respond to that. Just holds onto Dick a little tighter. Dick appreciates it, because he’s not sure that anything can be said that won’t sound superficial. Because there’s really no other option other than doing it. And they both know it.

“Dinner will be served in an hour,” Alfred tells him. “Rest until then.”

Dick shakes his head and looks up. “Where’s Damian?”

“The Cave. Training, the boy said.”

“Okay,” Dick says, and even though he doesn’t want to do anything but collapse on the couch for the rest of the night, he stands up and heads downstairs to find Damian. Alfred lets him go, and Dick pretends like he can’t feel the sad gaze burning into his shoulders.

“Impressive,” is the first thing out of Dick’s mouth when he looks in on Damian’s training.

Damian scoffs, but his sword strokes don’t falter in the least. “Of course it is.”

“You gonna stop for dinner?” Dick asks, leaning against the nearest wall as he continues watching the boy. “Alfred says it’ll be about an hour or so. And his cooking is super good. Best food I’ve ever had. I’ve been all around the world, and I can definitely say that Alfred’s cooking is ranked number one, even over—”

“I won’t be joining you,” Damian interrupts.

Dick blinks. And then he frowns, because, “You didn’t eat last night.”

“I did eat. Just not with you.”

Dick ignores the heaviness in his chest at that comment. “Okay. Well, I guess it’s good that you’re eating, at least. What about tonight? Is there something wrong with Alfred’s cooking?”

“No,” is all Damian offers, and he continues training.

Dick feels like he’s banging his head against a wall made of diamonds with how tough this kid is to get close to, but there’s something in the back of his mind that won’t let him give up. Where usually he might get mad if Bruce had done something like this, Dick just smiles wanly and says, “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be right upstairs.”

Damian says nothing else, so Dick leaves it, glad that the kid isn’t starving. One problem down, another to deal with.

Except Damian’s less of a problem, and more of a puzzle that Dick is determined to figure out. And maybe it’d be easier if he could spend more time with the kid. But between Bruce’s work schedule and sleeping, the only time Dick ever really sees Damian is during training and patrol.

And speaking of patrol—

“Damian?” Dick calls, and he waits for Damian to make a noise of acknowledgement before continuing. “We’re going to stay in. Just for tonight. Okay?”

Damian turns towards him quickly, and if Dick hadn’t been expecting it, he probably would have jumped. He looks infuriated.

“Why?” Damian demands. “Is this punishment for listening last night?”

“No, Damian—”

“Then why wouldn’t we patrol? Is that not what Batman and Robin are for?”

“We’re not machines—”

“But we are supposed to be protecting the city, yes?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t have to be every night,” Dick tells him, trying to push down his irritation.

Damian clicks his tongue at Dick and swings back around to continue his training, saying, “I bet my father would have gone out as many nights as it took to protect Gotham as the Batman.”

Something inside Dick snaps, and for the longest time, he can’t find it in him to say anything. The Cave descends into pure silence, and the buzzing under Dick’s skin intensifies. His temper is completely gone, and in its place is this sort of blankness. Numbness, maybe.

“Okay,” Dick says. Just to say something. He says again, “Okay.”

And then he turns on his heel and drags himself back upstairs.

At some point, he finds himself in Bruce’s old room, curled up under the covers, room only lit by a single dim lamp. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sleep. Just stares blankly at the wall and wonders why he thought he could do any of this. Why he thought he was good enough to be Batman when he can barely be Dick Grayson.

Everything’s a mess. He’s making a mess of Bruce’s life. He’s the worst son, and he’s sure that if Bruce were alive, he’d find a way to love him anyways.

That thought makes him feel worse.

Alfred comes in a while later, knocking politely while he pretends that standing so near Bruce’s bedroom doesn’t hurt him to the very core. After all, Dick lost a father, but Alfred lost a son. They’re both hurting. And Dick’s just going and making it worse.

“Dinner is ready.”

“Okay,” Dick says.

He gets up from the bed. He eats dinner (without Damian, unsurprisingly), and he’s almost halfway through when Alfred announces, “The batsignal is lit, Master Dick.”

Dick puts down his fork, hides his face in his hands for three, four, five, and then he’s standing up and heading down to the Cave, grabbing a protein bar to throw at Damian as he calls, “Suit up.” And then he meets Gordon at the GCPD with Damian as his Robin, and they pretend they can work together seamlessly for the Commissioner’s sake.

And everything is absolutely exhausting.

By the time they get home that night, it’s four in the morning and Dick has to be up in another two.

Instead of sleeping, Dick finally cries. He curls up underneath Bruce’s covers again and stares at the wall as the clock counts down to his next work day, silent tears spilling onto the pillow beneath his head. He cries. He doesn’t sleep.

And the day begins again.

And because he’s Dick Grayson—because he’s Batman—because he’s Bruce Wayne’s son, Dick tries again. He keeps moving. Even though he feels like he’s falling in slow motion, he picks himself and tries to fly again and again and again.

#dick grayson #dc #camryn writes #angst

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 6 years

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Episodyssey - “Operation: C.A.R.A.M.E.L.”

Welcome to Episodyssey, my new review thing specifically for episodes of TV shows, where I talk about the best, the worst, and the weirdest episodes I can think of. I figured I’d start things off with the very episode that inspired me to make this series: Operation: C.A.R.A.M.E.L.

I think it’s safe to say that Codename: Kids Next Door is one of Cartoon Network’s best and most creative shows ever. It had a fun concept, loads of creative gadgets, a colorful rogues gallery of memorable and amusing villains, and a core cast of likable childish rogues. Throw in an incredibly intriguing lore, lots of great humor, and a willingness to reference everything from Star Wars to The Animatrix of all things, and you have a classic on your hands.

[These kids are alright]

Speaking of references, the episode I’m here to talk about contains a reference… to Fullmetal Alchemist. I mean really, what else could a massive transmutation circle be referencing? And not only that, the episode was concluding one of the best story arcs the show had done, one that had spanned many episodes and given one of the best characters a true rival while also referencing one of the best franchises known to man. All of the elements are here for a great episode, one that should be one of my favorites.

Too bad they fucked it all up.

[Galactic KND Numbuh One is very disappointed]

So to explain why this episode is a disaster, let’s rewind a bit and talk about the setup. Back in season three in the episode Operation: J.E.W.E.L.S. we were introduced to a new antagonist: Heinrich Von Marzipan. Imagine if Augustus Gloop was every single Nazi from the Indiana Jones movies at once, and there you have him.

[I bet you thought I was kidding]

This rotund German chocoholic came into conflict with Numbuh 5, who for those not in the know is a kid who could only exist in fiction due to being unbearably cool in everything she did. Throughout his appearances, he would show up, antagonize Numbuh 5, probably reference some old movie, and then fuck off again. In his second appearance he was turned into a living being made of chocolate in a Temple of Doom reference gone amok, and in his third appearance he was sent to the arctic prison base. After one more appearance came this, his fifth and final appearance.

This episode explained an incident that had been hinted at way back when he first appeared: the Guatemala incident, which is what soured his relationship with Numbuh 5 in the first place. Here it is explained that back then, he performed a ritual to create a sacred caramel that was made from the most prized quality of the human a ritual was performed on, which would create five pieces of caramel with flavor depending on the quality taken. Heinrich of course did this to himself and then devoured all the candies on his own, being the greedy bastard he is. This of course led to the side effect of his prized quality being lost forever, and he blamed Numbuh 5 for leaving him behind when she realized his greed would be his undoing.

His plan here is to use the ritual to steal the qualities from a large number of KND operatives, including Numbuh 5, and eat all their candies. With a massive transmutation circle and unfathomable gluttony, Heinrich gets ready to do the deed… until Numbuh 5 reveals she had his last candy all a long and gives it to him, allowing him to break the curse on himself. You see, all he needed to do was to share candy, and all of his problems would have been solved!

Or, well… I should say, all of HER problems.

You see, in a shocking swerve, it is revealed that Heinrich gave up his beauty. He was originally a pretty girl.

[No caption could possibly capture the sheer level of bafflement this exudes]

So this ending just… fucking comes out of nowhere. None of this was ever even remotely hinted at before, and this is a series that has some pretty solid continuity. It feels really awkward and confusing to have such a huge twist like this just be completely unforeshadowed, not to mention the fact that it was never even brought up, and there is no reason Numbuh 5 should have kept this a secret other than to shock the audience with the big twist.

It also opens up a world of kinda fucked up implications, namely that ugliness means being a fat boy. Like this is literally the conditions of the equivalent exchange here, you lose your most important trait, and it is explicitly stated Henrietta’s trait was her beauty... So losing her beauty turns he from a skinny blonde girl into the average political blogger on Tumblr: a fat, angry Nazi. I’m not sure what this says about our portly hero Numbuh 2, or his equally heoic yet somewhat obnoxious brother Tommy, or any of the other chubby characters in the show who are equally if not moreso fat than Heinrich. It just feels really weird for the show to equate being fat and a boy with being ugly, especially when not only are there at least two chubby heroic characters (the aforementioned Gilligan brothers), but the show’s art style doesn’t really make Heinrich look all that ugly. Like yeah he’s clearly a fat greedy bastard and his personality is foul, but he’s no Bling Bling Boy or anything.

[Just kidding, Heinrich wishes he exuded the raw sex appeal of BBB]

It just feels really weird and awkward, especially since the show has plenty of ways of making characters ugly - they even have it happen to a few characters here in the episode, WITHOUT changing their gender! This feels like it was only done for shock value; it really adds nothing and frankly just feels like a colossal letdown in terms of this plotline. I’m not going to pretend like this was probably going to rival the greatest episodes with its conclusion, but I think something a little more sensible than “Heinrich was a girl the WHOLE TIME! Also boys are fat and ugly lol” would have made for a more compelling ending to this mini-arc. At the very least, it would have given a far more satisfying conclusion to the rivalry between Heinrich and Numbuh 5. Instead, all we’re left with is a mediocre wrap-up, a waste of a great reference, and eight pornographic pictures on Paheal.

[For once I’m glad the internet didn’t remember to Rule 34 something]

#Episodyssey #Review #Cartoon review #episode review #Codename: Kids Next Door #KND #Operation: C.A.R.A.M.E.L.#weird #wtf #Cartoon Network

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ladyloveandjustice · 6 years

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Winter 2018 Anime Overview: Devilman Crybaby and The Ancient Magus Bride

(the weird symbols in place of punctuation will go away if you click on read more. sorry I cannot fix them).

It’s that time of the season! Time to look back on the anime I watched over the Winter 2018 season and give my thoughts on them. We’ve got at least five anime to get through here. l start out with the two that gave me the most conflicted feelings.

Devilman Crybaby

Devilman Crybaby is a 10-episode anime adaptation of Go Nagai’s 70s manga Devilman, revamped for a modern audience. It was released all at once on Netflix. The story follows a young man named Akira Fudo, a Nice Young Man (tm). His childhood friend Ryo gets him involved in hunting demons and he ends up merging with one! He becomes Devilman, a demon who retains his good human heart. With Ryo at his side, he vows to use his powers for justice and fight the bad demons.

I...watched this for some reason, and I pretty much already did a review (beware spoilers) and covered my thoughts on it in my liveblog. I didn’t come out exactly a fan of the show overall, but it was an interesting experience at least. I had a fun time looking into the weird history of the franchise and with all the memes. Devilman Crybaby is based on a old, influential manga and there’s a good breakdown of some of the smart adaptation choices the series made here. Probably the thing that a lot of people in my circle talking about it the most is it’s EXTREMELY queer, and while the representation is a mixed bag to say the least, it makes an effort.

Overvall, there’s some cool concepts and arcs in this series, such as the the depictions of Satan and God.There’s also some neat animation and aesthetics, but plotwise it’s uneven with the first half being very weak in the pacing department and the characters were not explored as much as I’d like.

There’s also a lot of badly handled and salaciously framed sexual assault junk as well as gross, exploitative framing of women’s bodies while mens’ bodies are largely left alone. The tired way it deals with sexuality is really boring and standard when you get down to it, rather than “shocking” like it tries to be.

What i really got out of it was I will keep the doomed queer lady couple and carry them in my heart along with the other gay stuff and I will laugh at how Extra Ryo is forever, but in the long run, not much else is memorable and will stick with me.

The Ancient Magus Bride (Episodes 14-22)

Read my review of the first half of the Ancient Magus Bride here!

Hoo boy. There is a lot to unpack with this one. I am going to get pretty detailed with my analysis here, so major spoilers. The TLDR version is: good stuff with Chise’s mom, bad ending episode, read the manga.

Let’s start with the good. We see Chise grow a lot as a character during this second half of the series and there’s a really nice focus on her forming friendships with girls closer to her age. The series shows her building a life outside Elias for herself and she becomes more self-possessed. She and Elias have a lot to teach each other, and they have some refreshingly honest conversations.

The series also doesn’t shy away from depicting Chise’s trauma and shows her grappling with it a lot.. She still places a very low value on herself and feels guilty for relying on others, and Elias calls her out on that. She’s taking steps forward, slowly. Episode 22, probably the strongest episode of the series, deals with the issues she has with her mother and her backstory and there are a ton of cool things there

Chise’s mother attracted monsters in a way similar to Chise does, and when her husband abandoned her, she struggled to both support and protect herself and Chise. It was near impossible task considering all the things trying to kill them and her desperation eventually led to a complete breakdown, where she tried to strangle Chise and lessen her burden. When she snapped out of it, she was so horrified at what she’d done, she committed suicide.

Chise takes a deep dive into her memories and comes to the realization the “mother” that has haunted her all this time was a version of her mother she herself constructed in her head based on her mother’s worst moment, a mother who wants her dead. But her mother didn’t actually want that in the end, otherwise she wouldn’t have let go of Chise or hated herself for what she did. Her mother, like any human, was not just one emotion or one moment, she was a fragile and flawed person who really did care for Chise before she broke down. Chise recognizes that now.

But, and this is the key, and what really made this episode work for me: Chise explicitly does not forgive her mother. Her mother is complex and more than just that one act, but that doesn’t mean that one act can be overlooked, or is any less scarring for Chise. She crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed, and Chise doesn’t have to forgive that to move on. Her mother abandoned her and now she has a new life. She chooses not to let her mothers actions define her.

I really enjoyed that. It’s true the images we construct in our heads are different from the real people we interact with, who are more complex, and the way this episode explores that is cool. One important moment can define the version of that person we keep in our hearts. And this episodes message that you can recognize someone who abused you as a complex and even pitiful person and still not forgive them. The most important thing is to move forward. A lot of stories wouldn’t have handled this sequence that deftly. The narrative sympathizes with Chise’s mother, but it doesn’t excuse her and neither does Chise herself.

But hey, speaking of abuse and narratives glossing over it! Let’s talk about Elias.

So you know all those female friendships Chise’s having and how she’s like, getting a life outside Elias? Elias is not okay with that. In fact, he’s SO possessiv he threatens Chise’s life at one point- she has to threaten to hurt herself to get him to stop squeezing her. It’s pointed out that Elias is like a child, which is true enough- he’s very new to feelings and interacting with people. But the excuse “oh it’s because he’s like a child” is eerily reminiscent of how abusers are excused in real life- “he can’t control himself, he’s just throwing tantrums”. Abusers are often babied in this way.

The idea Chise is obligated to “mother” him and teach him basic morality and self control even at risk to herself is a dangerous one. Nobody should be expected to do that, much less a traumatized teen. Yet Chise instantly forgives Elias for nearly killing her, when she clearly needs to get out of this relationship before she is harmed more, because this behavior can only worsen.

And I actually don’t have a problem with this for most of the narrative- because it’s not romanticized It is clearly a mistake that Chise indulges Elias’s behavior because, realistically, it escalates.

Chise’s days are numbered thanks to a curse and he promises Chise he’ll work with her to solve the problem. But he goes back on his word and tries to sacrifice another human to save Chise. He even goes so far as to make Chise faint to keep her from interfering, utterly denying her agency. And the kicker is he chooses to kill the a little girl Chise has befriended for this, explicitly because he’s jealous that Chise “looks at her” differently that she does him. He is literally so possessive he’s willing to kill children Chise dares pay any attention to.

it’s unbelievably fucked up, and the narrative treats it as such. It also make it clear this is the natural result of how toxic this relationship has gotten. Chise arrives in time to stop Elias and her sheer horror and rage is very powerfully done. For the first time, she sees him for how selfish and dangerous he is, how much he doesn’t respect her wishes and their relationship is broken. In a powerful (and satisfying) moment, she slugs him in the face.

Then she leaves him, stating “I can’t be with you as you are now.” Her rage and pain is the central focus here. And I have no problem with the narrative- it depicts an abusive relationship without endorsing it. It shows how these things can escalate, and it shows that Chise has very much outgrown Elias.

There’s a good scene shortly after where the fey tell Elias to take Chise back by force, as is their fairy way, and he says no, he needs to try to understand how humans work and change how he does things. That’s some really interesting stuff- the supernatural beings have their own entirely different way of approaching "love”, and Elias was entrenched in that. But now he has to learn how to love in a more honest, less possessive way, like a human is supposed to. That would be a really interesting journey to see- I love contrasting morality systems between various magical beings.

So, It’s no longer a good idea for Chise and Elias to be near each other. Chise needs her space from him and Elias needs to seriously change and make amends.

I fully expected this to be how the anime ends. With Elias and Chise seperating and the promise that they will both be able to grow and change and learn to be without each other. And probably a hint that they’d reunite eventually, when Elias has truly changed (not just SAID he will). It seemed to be the natural arc of the narrative and honestly what these two characters NEEDED to really progress.

But the anime said “fuck character development, fuck healthy relationships, fuck pacing, fuck everything” and threw the arc it had been carefully building out the window.

In an extremely rushed and jarring final epsiode, Chise does a dangerous thing and asks for Elias’s help and he complies and...thus she instantly forgives him. Despite the whole thing being treated as a huge deal, suddenly this very real issue of their toxic relationship is forgotten, she goes back to him and their disagreement is treated as nothing more than a cute spat (with Elias claiming Chise is equally at fault because she acted on her own without waiting for him once, proving he has learned NOTHING and does not understand the severity of what he did and how it is in no way equivalent to Chise simply being reckless), they even turn chibi.

THIS IS AN ARGUMENT OVER HOW ELIAS TRIED TO MURDER A CHILD CHISE LIKED OUT OF PETTY JEALOUSY. IT’S A BIG DEAL. DON’T TRY TO MAKE IT SOME CUTE AND SILLY THING WHEN YOU TREATED IT SERIOUSLY THREE EPISODES AGO.

Oh, but it gets worse. Elias and Chise resolve their argument offscreen and apparently it’s all solved by Elias saying he won’t do it again. Yep. That’s it. No demonstration he’s changed or even understands why his actions are wrong. It’s just “I won’t do things you don’t like”. Problem solved!

And the Chise does what any girl would do after a guy broke her heart and tried to murder her ten year old friend: get a wedding dress and make her vows to him!

No. i’m not joking. As much as I wish it was.

And this scene is not framed as creepy or dangerous. It is framed as sweet and romantic.

Let’s put aside the fact Chise is 16. Let’s put aside the huge power imbalance in their relationship and the fact Chise is in his care. Even putting those things, this makes no sense from a narrative and characterization perspective

Elias has done nothing to warrant Chise wanting the make this step! He literally just betrayed her! There was absolutely no buildup to this, no natural relationship progression! Elias and Chise are both in no way ready to be in a romantic relationship! Elias proved he isn’t emotionally equipped to function as FRIEND and reasonable being right now, much less a husband! Does he even know what a bride is? Last time we checked, he didn’t even understand the concept fully! He has no idea what he’s supposed to do as a husband. Why would Chise choose NOW of all times to make her move when he’s done nothing to show her he won’t pull shit like, i dunno, trying to murder her friends because he’s jealous, again?

This is so tonally jarring with the rest of the series and it comes out of nowhere. It seemed fundamentally opposed to how the relationship between Chise and her mom was handled, where moving away from abuse and letting go of your abuser was emphasized. Where not excusing horrible actions and taking time to fully deal with your hurt and pain was emphasized. Apparently none of that applies to Elias! No time apart, no time to process and heal and have him take responsibility for his actions!

It’s also just terrible from a narrative perspective- it’s ridiculously rushed, it’s a complete tone shift that treats what was presented as a big dramatic conflict that seemed like it would shake these characters at their foundation as a an easily resolved cute little spat, it fails to be satisfying as a conclusion. Compared to the rest of the show, it feels like it was written by an entirely different person.

And it was. I immediately went to check if this whole conclusion was anime original and yep. This is where it overtook the manga. This ep was the shitty, rushed conclusion they tacked on to a story line that really, really needed more time to breathe. I have no idea why they’d want to do this, why they couldn’t just wait for the manga to finish this arc and end the anime there, but here we are.

I hope the manga will have a more satisfying conclusion to this storyline, that it will give the resolution the room it needs. Ideally, I’d like Chise to live apart from Elias for at least a while. She’s grown a lot, and she needs space to grow further and learn how to function without him. They’ve gotten dangerously codependent and it’s stifling her. Meanwhile, Elias especially needs to learn how to not treat Chise so possessively and taking time apart from her and respecting her wishes to be left alone would help him learn to do that. He needs to work on himself so he isn’t a danger to her. If they stay together right now, things will only get worse.

The manga is about their relationship, so I have no doubt they’ll eventually reunite, but I want to see it happen only after Elias proves he’s changed significantly and after Chise is allowed to become more confident and independent. I hope the manga delivers on that and tells a satisfying story where the characters actually grow, that treats the issue of abuse and toxic relationships seriously, that gels with the stuff that came before.

Of course, there was other stuff going on in the midst of Chise and Elias’ emotional journeys. We learned the Cartaphilus backstory and it was actually pretty interesting stuff. it fully explored exactly how horrific it would be to wander the earth and never die- Cartaphilus was being punished for a crime that was so long ago he couldn’t even remember what it was. When he finds out it was “threw a rock at the Son of God” he’s like “wtf just for that? other people did way worse shit!” and you have to agree with him. It also offers the ishiness of using Cartaphilus as an antagonist a bit by making it clear he only started killing after fusing with a boy named Joseph. In fact, the Cartaphilus part of Joseph seems mostly benign as he was the one who tried to talk to Chise.

So it’s a compelling take on an old story. Lots of parallels are made between him and Chise, he’s a great antagonist thematically. The conclusion...well like everything in the last episode, it was rushed, weird, and I couldn’t really tell what was going on. Hopefully the manga's version will be better.

I enjoyed a lot of this anime- the rich fantasy world, the exploration of trauma, the complex characters- but the last episode was just so infuriatingly BAD that it damaged the narrative as whole. It undid and contradicted most of the positive things about the story. It just left me feeling skeeved out.

So in the end, I don’t recommend this anime. Because you’re better off reading the manga. I went through it, and it was better paced than the anime overall, has many details that strengthen the story and the emotional beats hit much harder. Watching the anime can be a confusing experience at times, but the manga is much easier to follow. I feel pretty confident based off this that however the manga wraps up the current arc, it will at the very least be slightly better paced and executed. So be kind to yourself, and go with the better version of the story if you’re interested in this. And cross your fingers for a good ending.

#anime overview #the ancient magus bride #devilman crybaby #winter 2018 anime #mahou tsukai no yome #mahoutsukai no yome #hatori chise #chise hatori #elias ainsworth #anime #abuse cw #suicide cw

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tonystarktogo · 7 years

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Tiny Tony Overlord Part 5

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Read on AO3

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Summary: In which Bix isn't as indifferent as she'd like to be, a lot of people die put nobody really cares, a miraculous recovery doesn't actually solve all of Tony's problems and, as always, life isn't fair.

Yay, an update on time! :) Please enjoy!

.Still The Parking Lot of Zach’s B&B.

Bix doesn’t hate a lot of things. Disliking, sure. A ton of things even, Tony Stark currently being on top of that list. But hate? Hate requires effort, hate requires emotional investment, and Bix happens to be short on both.

What Bix definitely and without question hates, though, are the kid’s eyes.

Sure, rationally Bix knows the kid is Tony Stark. The ‘how’ and ‘why’ are two big, blank spots, but watching a forty-four-year-old man being turned into a kid that doesn’t look a day over nine is a pretty eye-opening experience. It also isn’t relevant to the mission. A dead Stark is a dead Stark after all, no matter at what age.

The problem is, he doesn’t look like a Stark. He looks like a child. A child with big brown eyes staring up at Bix and-

Fuck.

Why is it always brown eyes? Why can’t they be green or blue? And why does this stupid detail make Bix hesitate at all?

[continues under the cut]

Stark is still standing there, looking tiny in front of Bix and the other men. He is clutching a half-empty water bottle like it’s a teddy bear and that shouldn’t have any effect on Bix at all. Just because Stark makes for a damn cute kid and his stubborn pout may or may not raise all sorts of protective instincts Bix didn’t even know existed until now doesn’t have to mean anything.

Bix has been serving Hydra for years , has lied and betrayed and murdered for an organisation that doesn’t give a fuck about them. And Bix isn’t doing it because of some twisted conviction to save the world. All that drivel about humanity being unable to handle freedom and how the world has to be ruled to achieve its true potential is absolute bullshit. An excuse for a couple of power-hungry maniacs to justify their genocide, nothing more.

And right now Bix is supposed to murder another kid for their little chess game. A brown-eyed kid.

It is an over-eager underling who decides to take things into his own hands. Far too impatient, he won’t last long in the field.

Unfortunately, Bix doesn’t even get to punish the wayward minion, which is honest to god the best part of being team leader, because in that moment, mini-Stark activates the Asset. The one thing everyone had been so sure he wouldn’t be capable of, wouldn’t figure out how to do in time.

They should have accounted for Stark’s completely unrealistic luck in their plans, damn it.

Not that it matters anymore. The Soldier has been activated. Stark’s command doesn’t leave much wiggle room either. Twelve of SHIELD’s standard combatants against the Winter Soldier? Bix doesn’t need a fortune teller to know how this fight is going to end.

Bix doesn’t bother to share that revelation with the other agents. It would be a waste of time. Besides, it’s not like Hydra choses its recruits based on their well-developed sense of loyalty. Instead, Bix does the only sensible thing when faced with a brutal killing machine that has been turned loose: Bix jumps over Stark’s crumbled body and runs.

* * * * *

Waking up in a place you don’t remember falling asleep in is an incredibly disconcerting experience. Waking up in a pool of blood, on the other hand, is almost comforting in its familiarity.

Slowly, Tony lifts his head. The motion is less painful than anticipated, considering the amount of blood his body is covered in. Curling his toes and clenching his hands confirms that his extremities are in working order as well, and besides the persistent ache in his left upper arm and the cuts on his hands, he seems to be uninjured.

Tony should probably freak out about the blood on him—he looks like he’s come fresh off the set of a really bad horror flick—but frankly, he’s woken up in worse. Actually, he feels pretty good about himself right now. His pulsing headache has completely disappeared and though no more than thirty minutes could have passed, Tony feels well-rested and energised.

It’s true, he supposes; the mental state does influence one’s physical condition. Because for the first time since he’s woken up in that café, his mind is clear.

Hell, he’s been so gone, he hasn’t even realised how off he has been these past few hours. How foggy and sluggish his mind worked, how many holes there were in his memory that he had lacked the capacity to even notice. He had been running on barely-there instincts and nothing else. It was sheer dumb luck Dead-Eyes hadn’t killed him on the spot.

And then the confrontation in the parking lot. Tony hasn’t walked into an ambush like that in years. It is a good thing Vic had been unable to accompany him; she would have murdered him for his lack of caution.

In his defence, Tony had underestimated how fractured, for lack of a better word, the transfer would be. He had been warned, multiple times, about the dangers of messing with the time storage, but those warnings had always focused on the risks of knowing too much. The unpredictable ways the future would be changed by that knowledge alone. The very real possibility of being driven into insanity by a reality that would no longer be real.

In a way, Tony understands those concerns better now. After the constant pain of the last few hours, the sensation of being mentally ripped apart, of being overwhelmed by a life that is not quite his own, the terror of drowning in a future that can never be allowed to come to pass yet has, he gets how tempting an escape from the horror of it all can be.

At the same time though, there is this nagging voice in the back of his mind, the disbelieving “Is that really all you’ve got?“ he can’t fully silence. Because the truth is, compared to the last couple of years, this pain, this terror, is nothing.

Tony winces, instinctively shying away from the darkest of his new memories. The deaths, the hopelessness, the torture, the fight they continued because there was nothing else left to do anymore. The hollow victory when they had finally, finally discovered a cure—too late to make a difference, too late to save anyone. An endless line of faces, young and old. People they lost, people who sacrificed themselves, people who betrayed them in the end.

And now here he is. In 2014, where none of it has happened yet, back in a time where he can still make a difference, and yet Tony doesn’t feel relieved or accomplished—he feels cheated.

Can it really be this simple? Is one highly unstable formula and a reckless veteran of the Last War all it takes to save the world? Granted, he is in the body of his ten-year-old self, which is odd. Definitely not one of the side-effects Tony can remember. But his age is only a minor setback. If what the world needed was a warrior it wouldn’t have been him whom they would have sent. He should still be able to create the cure once he has procured the necessary equipment; he can worry about the distribution after that.

Except. Tony furrows his brows in concentration, does his best to draw up every single memory he has pertaining the invasion, the war councils, the endless hours spent in labs and workshops. He recalls his arguments with Rogers early on, Pepper sobbing into his shoulder at Happy’s funeral, the March of the Dead Children, the mistakes they made in the beginning and then never again. It’s all there, burned into his mind, with a clarity that he knows will give him nightmares for years to come.

The only thing Tony can’t seem to recall is the enemy. Who they were fighting. What they were fighting. He knows there was something; he knows it destroyed them and he knows they found a cure. Tony balls his bloodied hands into fists, and for the first time, there is something like panic uncurling in his chest.

No. This has to be some sort of sick cosmic joke. It’s just not possible. He can’t have forgotten the cure. He can’t have forgotten the threat. The memories have to be there somewhere, buried perhaps, but they have to exist. They have to.

Tony swallows, almost chokes on the bile rising in his throat. He can’t watch his world be torn apart again, knowing something is coming yet unable to do anything until the threat reveals itself. It will be too late by then, he already knows that. Already lived through it once. And if there is one thing he knows for certain, it’s that he can’t live through it again.

Please don’t make me live through it again.

Tony doesn’t even realise how fast he’s spiralling until the heavy sound of approaching footsteps awakens his deeply-ingrained survival instincts. He is on his feet before he recognises Dead-Eyes, who appears to be carrying two bodies. Two very, very dead bodies. The horrifying sight actually helps grounding Tony once more. It reminds him that he is currently standing on a battlefield, and that, at least, is something he knows so well it’s become routine at this point.

There are seven bodies that he can see—which is not saying much if one takes his current size into account—all of them dressed and armed for battle. Dropping to his knees next to the closest one, Tony turns the male onto his back and looks him over. Early thirties, no memorable features, one bullet wound to the head, two more in his chest. He’s not carrying anything worthwhile except for a small knife that Tony pockets and a badge identifying him as Agent Trent Michaels.

“He’s SHIELD,” Tony muses out loud and crawls towards the next body, where he finds a similar badge.

For a long moment he stares at the IDs in silent contemplation. Then he lifts his head and meets Dead-Eyes’ expectant glance. “Get me the others as well.”

In total, there are eleven bodies, all of them official SHIELD agents. Tony would need access to a database to make sure they’re valid but there is no reason to assume they aren’t. Which leaves two very important questions. One: Why on earth does SHIELD want him dead? Nothing in Tony’s memories hints at a similar occurrence in his past—future—other life. Sure, he isn’t particular chummy with the spy agency, but a death sentence seems a bit much, even by Fury’s standards. Two: How likely is it that they are gonna ask questions first and shoot later once they find their decimated agents? And that’s a rhetorical question.

Seems like Tony’s original plan—get to his old team mates, prove his identity, get into the best lab there is and fix this mess—isn’t so feasible anymore.

Staring down at the motionless bodies of the SHIELD agents, Tony knows with absolute certainty that he can’t contact the organisation, no matter how useful their resources might prove to be. Not without taking unpredictable risks and definitely not without letting Dead-Eyes take the fall for this bloodbath. It would be possible, Tony is sure he could work it out somehow, but he finds himself surprisingly averse to the idea.

By all means, it should be an easy choice. Knowing that his old friends, his self-made family are waiting for him in a home he’d built for them all, alive and well. The idea of getting that back, no matter the dangers, no matter what body he is in, is incredibly tempting. It’s a dream he has held onto for years, finally within his reach, and yet. His eyes find Dead-Eyes’ motionless shadow at his back for a moment and Tony feels his throat closing up and traitorous tears burning behind closed lids because it has never been a choice at all.

For the first time since waking up in a world two heads smaller than every enemy trying to kill him, Tony actually feels ten years old. Because right now he doesn’t want to save the world, doesn’t want to cry himself to sleep over a stupid cure he can’t seem to remember. He wants Jarvis. He wants his parents. He wants to hide under his bed forever.

He can’t go back to being that scared, ten year old ever again and it’s not fair.

Then Tony’s spine stiffens and narrow shoulders straighten with steely determination. “Soldier,” he calls out, the designation falling naturally from his lips. Watches as Dead-Eyes snaps to attention, dark, ever so intelligent eyes focusing on him. It helps, being the centre of someone’s focus. Grounds him in a way Tony had forgotten he could be anchored. “Destroy any evidence of our presence and let’s get out of here. We’re going dark.”

Because above all else, Tony Stark, at any age and in any form, is a futurist.

Tony doesn’t go back. He moves forward.

A little shorter than usual but I promise the next chapter will make up for that. Also, we've officially reached the end of the "introduction" period. All the pieces have been placed on the board. Now it's time to get this game started...

Please let me know what you think, and if you have any theories about where this story goes now I'd love to hear them! Have a relaxing Sunday everybody!

#ReRe writes #Tiny Tony Overlord #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #Bix The HYDRA Goon #tiny Tony #deaged Tony #fic #Winter Soldier Bucky #SHIELD is a mess #so is Tony #and so it begins...

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princesssarcastia · 4 years

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learning to live with it

hello, I’m back for the third night in a row with more weird ass star wars fic from this one universe i’m slowly expanding.

in which obi-wan is straight-up not having a good time, and all his friends aren’t dead, this time, but they sure did high-tail it away from the order coruscant him the second they could. also in which obi-wan and padmé are FRIENDS GODDAMMIT. (spoiler: there is a sappy ending to this one, it’s not just angst)

part 3 of ?, also on ao3, if you prefer

—

Obi-Wan doesn’t meet the twins until months after their birth.

—

The moment he arrived on Coruscant after everything on Utapau—with the 212th trailing behind him in waves because he hadn’t even spoken to Cody before the urgency in the living and unifying Force, united and tearing at him like loth-wolves, drove him into his fighter—he rushed to the Temple just in time to meet Mace and Ahsoka…and Anakin.

After it all spilled out of them, in fits and starts between the Temple hangar and the halls of healing; Maul and Ahsoka and Palpatine and Anakin and Palpatine’s last, desperate attempt to reach him commlink, the mystery of who he could call for support hanging over their heads—

Except for his many, many trips to the Senate rotunda, where he gives in to the urge to verbally savage every Senator that gets in his way, he doesn’t…leave it. The Temple.

He just hits a wall. It’s finally too much.

Ahsoka and Maul.

Anakin and Palpatine.

Years of being denied the sanctity of his home for more than a week at a time, months and months apart, push him to hole up and dig his heels in. If any senator or commander or lesser general wants to speak to him, they can very well come to him, or fuck off, because if they can’t deign to do that it can’t be that important.

Anakin delivers his resignation to the High Council mere hours before he departs Coruscant entirely—ostensibly for Naboo, though his frequent meetings with Rex, Cody, Aayla, Bly, Plo Koon and Wolffe, among others, build a suspicion in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind that he does them the courtesy of ignoring.

Padmé leaves with him.

Ahsoka leaves days after that, on some relief mission for Bail Organa, having apparently been knighted by Yoda and Yoda alone. Another one of their traditions dead and gone, then. Another piece of their culture denied to them by the effects of three years of utterly pointless conflict.

Mace wanders through the Temple like a silent guardian, grief and terrible truths lying in wait in his eyes, but he rarely speaks of them. He rarely speaks at all, still contemplating some revelation the end of the war and destruction of the Sith has afforded him. His silence has certainly been noticed by the other members of the High Council, and the senators who expend the effort to pay particular attention to the Head of the Order. At some point, Depa and Caleb take to wandering the Temple with him, towering pillars of support.

Quinlan left before he ever really came back, unable to comprehend reverting to the way things were, three years and entire lifetimes ago.

So…so many of them never came back at all. So many faces Obi-Wan will never see again. Some names, he has to search in the Temple records to discover their fate, because a dead Jedi became such a common occurrence that there are those who slipped through the grasp of his memory.

His master, and his master’s master, and his padawan, all gone.

When the clones defect—defect, they haven’t gone to the other side, they’ve simply decided that with no war to fight, the government that bought their lives and deaths had no say in their future. It’s not like there even is or ever was an “other side,” no matter what the shattered remains of the CIS parliament like to claim. When they leave, when they claim their freedom, it isn’t a surprise. Not in the least because Anakin never met a subtle bone in his body he didn’t want to break.

Cody sends him a message with coordinates, “just in case.” And then, nothing.

Nothing.

Obi-Wan meditates in his rooms and walks through the Temple Gardens and visits the Senate whenever they build to some sort of obstinance in their proceedings he feels the need to quash personally or some senator believes the Jedi or the GAR have something to answer for.

If anyone wants to see him, that’s what he’ll be doing. They can come find him.

—

Padmé came to him. Back on Coruscant two months after the twins’ birth—and it was twins, he knows that much, at least—a whole month before she claimed she would return her duties when she left, and eight months before Naboo would have even though to ask it of her; to the surprise of not a single soul she’s ever met.

After a week of delivering impassioned speeches in the Senate, meeting with almost every member of the opposition to gauge their thoughts on how rebuilding was going, and, if Obi-Wan knows her at all, quietly inquiring after the potential candidates for a new Supreme Chancellor, she appears out of nowhere at the Temple’s entrance, demanding to be let in to see him.

Security at the Temple is…fraught. The bombing made their wartime policies even more stringent, and they haven’t relaxed them yet; even a galactic senator can’t enter without a Jedi to sponsor it.

She’s dressed discreetly, too, in a vaguely familiar vest that’s clearly made of the Naboo’s answer to armorweave. There are no visible weapons on her person, but he has no doubt she’s armed, even here.

“Obi-Wan,” she says warmly, grasping his hand tightly when he reaches out to greet her.

“Padmé,” he returns, dipping his head.

“Shall we?” She says, turning somehow, inexorably, in the direction of his quarters, far away as they are, as a kind of hint.

He raises a brow, “Indeed,” and takes it, letting her lead them out of amused curiosity, and wondering when she had the time to memorize any part of the Temple’s layout. Her capacity to do so, he has no doubt of; nor her ability to gain access to those records.

Tea is offered and accepted, and with the opening ritual complete, everything left unsaid between them fills the air to the point of tension.

Padmé wraps her hands around her mug and lets out a long, slow sigh, some measure of her composure seeping away.

“How are you, really?” Obi-Wan says softly.

“Well, the afterpains have finally petered off,” Padmé says wryly, giving him a look.

A measure of regret stirs like an ache in his chest. “Congratulations on your children, Padmé; and forgive me for taking this long to express how happy I am for you.”

“Thank you.”

They sit in silence, sipping at their tea, and Obi-Wan wonders if he’ll ever manage to untangle the complicated grief and anger woven around him, a tangled net that pulls and tears with every breath. Wonders if he’ll ever speak to any of these people he holds so dear without the weight of everything they’ve done pressing down on him. All those secrets. All that violence.

“Are we friends?” Padmé asks abruptly, forcing him to meet and hold her gaze with sheer force of will. “I’d like to think that we are, after all this time.”

“I would, too,” Obi-Wan returns, and the ache in his chest throbs. He can’t just say yes, can he? Because it would be a lie, and he’s so tired of lying. He’s so…tired.

She smiles, kind, but sad, because she can see what he isn’t saying. “You are my friend,” Padmé straightens her spine. “And I’m worried about you, Obi-Wan. Staying holed up in the Temple isn’t doing you any favors.”

“Yes, well, running away from it won’t solve any problems, either,” he snaps, and closes his eyes regretfully.

“Is that why you’re angry with me? Because you think I ran away from all the problems here on Coruscant?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Or is that why you’re angry at Anakin, and you’re just taking it out on me, too?” She says scathingly. But there’s an undercurrent of hurt flowing through the Force around her.

“I never said I was—” no, he swallows that, because he is angry, and he still doesn’t want to lie. Even if it would be kinder. “Yes. Alright, I am angry at the both of you. At the Senate, at Palpatine, and the Order, and Ahsoka, and—Force, I’m just angry, Padmé, all the time, because not a damn thing any of us have done in the last three years seems to matter, anymore. None of it ever mattered!” He doesn’t yell, but he knows his agitation is bleeding from him like an open wound in the Force. “We were all just pawns to him! You, handing him the chancellorship on a platter,” he spits, “Anakin letting himself be led down the path to the dark without saying a Force-dammed word to anyone, and then running away, yes, because Force forbid he ever ask for help! Me, leading an army of enslaved men to their deaths for a contrived political game without ever stopping to consider the larger picture. Dooku was right; Qui-Gon would be so ashamed of me. Of what the Order has become,” he finishes bitterly.

“You think you’re the only one who’s angry?” Padmé leans in, setting her mug aside to wholly pin him in place with her eyes. “The system of government I’ve dedicated my life to is crumbling still, even while we watch. Our ability to govern democratically is slipping through our fingers like so much water, and the one thing—” her voice cracks, and she swallows. “The one thing in my entire life I’ve ever done just because I wanted it, because it felt right, and it made me stronger, and damn the consequences—well. It turns out you can’t damn the consequences after all.” She pushes away from the table and covers her eyes. “Shit. I’m going to go home in another month or two or ten and my children won’t even recognize me, Obi-Wan. Because I have to be here, fixing what we broke.

“If it even can be fixed,” she finishes softly, hand still drawn over her face.

Obi-Wan huffs and tries to lodge the burning in his eyes back underneath that overwhelming fog of exhaustion. “Is it really that bad?”

“We still haven’t elected another Chancellor, and at this point, the Galactic Senate can’t function without one. There are plenty of systems who have more than half a mind to let it all just…crumble back to our planetary foundations.”

“I take it you won’t be suggesting yourself as a candidate?” He tries engaging in politics instead to bury it, a desperate last resort. “I’m sure Anakin, at least, has put the idea forth,” he adds.

She lets her hand drag down her face so as to give him another look. “Yes, and that’s why he’s still on Naboo with our children, instead of here. Naboo cannot lead the Republic again, not after Palpatine kept his seat for so long.”

“Too long,” Obi-Wan mutters into his mug, trying to douse his bitterness with tea. His attempt to flee his feelings is caught in the tangled net they weave, neatly attempting to strangle him. “What about Bail?”

“He would do it, if we asked, but I don’t want to put that on his head.” She tips her head to the side. “Plus, there are any number of former Separatist planets thinking about rejoining the Republic—if it even still exists—that would balk at the idea of a Chancellor from so deep in the core; from a founding member of the Republic.”

“Hmm. That would rule out Senator Mothma as well, then.”

“Yes,” Padmé gives him a small grin. “We need an incorruptible figure who will immediately move to give up the emergency powers we’ve loaded onto the Chancellorship; with no ties to Palpatine, preferably from the Mid Rim, or even the Outer Rim Territories; who furthermore can actually do the job.”

“Yes, that is a bit of a tall order.”

“Honestly, half the reason the Republic is still standing is because the Jedi stepped in to end the war.”

He runs a hand over his jaw slowly. “And the other half is Ahsoka. Perhaps we should ask her opinion on this mess, supposing we could catch her during her brief stop-overs on Coruscant.”

“Obi-Wan,” Padmé chides, with prideprotectionlonging leaking from her like a sieve in the Force.

Silence falls again, and Obi-Wan breathes, in, out; in, out, before topping off both their mugs and leaning away from the table, new warmth leaching into his hands.

The Force nudges his mind. He lets his eyes fall halfway shut, hears: perhaps we should ask her opinion on this mess, feels: a cold so pervasive it sinks into his bones and makes his next exhale visible, sees: a spear struck deep into the ground like a declaration.

Before he can let that premonition crystalize into any real particular insight, Padmé clears her throat. “Obi-Wan, I—” she stops. “I just wanted—” and again. “I’ve missed you, these months. I missed you when the twins were born, and I think I still miss you now even when you’re right in front of me.” A fiercer kind of longing rises in her, so visceral Obi-Wan can feel it in the back of his own throat. “You are my friend,” she repeats, “and I, I would like it very much if you would come back to Naboo with me and meet my children.”

His lips part uselessly while he searches for something to say. “Padmé, I…”

“I want them to know you,” she plants her demands more certainly in front of him. “And if that means I have to banish my husband to Sola’s house for a week so you can keep hiding from each other, so be it. But you’re my friend, too, and I want them to know you.”

The longing stretches between them, latching onto him until it feels like his own. And maybe it is. He can’t quite picture what that would be like; picture what twin fusions of two of his dearest friends will look like, what holding them in his arms will inspire in him. He doesn’t, overwhelming realization striking him, even know their names, and admits as much.

“Luke,” Padmé smiles reflexively, like the sun breaking through the clouds. “And Leia.”

A sigh of relief floods through the Force around them like a dam driven to bursting, and Obi-Wan blinks back more tears. Second sunset in a familiar-unfamiliar desert. Cool clear mountain air. Burnished hope tucked away to grow unimpeded.

“Luke.” He repeats roughly. “Leia.”

—

Their weight in his arms is devastatingly familiar, somehow, and he loves Anakin and Padmé twice over for creating such incredible beings.

And when they open their eyes and wave their hands and feet in the air, blinding twin presences in the Force reaching for him so delicately, his shields unfurl like solar sails, immediately attuned to them.

A Feeling strikes him. “Oh, I’m in so much trouble,” he breathes down at them, and feels warm with their attention.

Luke coos. Leia burbles back.

“Yes, yes I am,” he says in a stronger, sillier tone, the way all younglings should be spoken to.

Anakin just laughs at him. “That’s just what Ahsoka said.”

Obi-Wan can’t even scrounge up the urge to be cross with him, still enraptured by these tiny beautiful little people. What an excellent shield they’ll make for their idiot father, whenever one of his loved ones could just shake him with frustration.

—

part 1, part 2

#obi-wan kenobi #padmé amidala #honorable mention: beautiful cinnamon rolls luke and leia naberrie #too good for this world too pure #star w #star wars fanfiction #fic #vague galactic politics #also lmk if you figured out who i want to make chancellor #its fucking wild but i stand by it #look obi-wan is very very angry about very many things #and he's right to be #his whole goddamn life has been kind of traumatic #the war is just the latest bit #but he's gotta admit it to himself before he can get anywhere close to better #also talk to me about dutiful 'leader of an entire planet at 14' padmé #who marries a guy she's known for less than a month total #in a whirlwind secret romance #and then wants to settle down and have babies and raise them with him #except...for how she also wants to create a lasting strong democracy #sometimes these things fit together #sometimes they clash #its A Lot #force visions #sorta

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